


The Boy in Red

by KouriArashi



Series: The Sum of Its Parts [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, BAMF Stiles, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Jackson, M/M, Magic, Mysterious Deaton, Mystery, PTSD, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Sick Derek, Wolf Cuddles, actual therapy, alternate universe/canon divergence, unavoidable original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 154,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'The One You Feed'. A sorcerer comes to Beacon Hills. When he seems to be targeting Stiles' pack, Stiles goes to Dr. Deaton for advice. But can the mysterious veterinarian really be trusted? (OMG I'm so bad at summaries, please forgive me if that's really melodramatic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here’s what happened . . .
> 
> My girlfriend said to me, “So, are you gonna write any more in your alpha!Stiles ‘verse?” and I said, “I dunno, I feel like the alpha pack fic really made a strong conclusion.” And she said okay and then the next day she said, “Someone should really write a fic where [x, y, and z] happen.” And I said, “Damn you, plot bunnies!” Or something like that. Therefore, this is entirely her fault and I claim no responsibility.
> 
> Damn, though, that list of tags is crazy. How are they all going to fit in the same fic? I’d better get writing before season 3 starts coming out and proving wrong every single assumption that I’ve made. (Speaking of which, does anyone else feel like Boyd would be from a big family? He just has that vibe to me.)

It’s hard for Stiles to believe that a year has gone by since the fateful night his father got a radio call about a body being found in the woods. A year since Laura Hale’s murder, a year since Scott was turned into a werewolf, a year since they met Allison and Derek. School is starting again, and the world seems so different from how it was at the beginning of their last school year that he could be on a different planet.

A lot of awful shit has happened, but a lot of good stuff has happened too, and he wouldn’t trade it. He’s happy with his life, and he had a great summer. There were beach trips, hiking in the mountains, endless video games, and tons of pool parties at Lydia’s. Then in July, they had brought Boyd into the pack, and now they’re stronger than ever. The next school year is sure to be interesting. They’re juniors now, so somewhat elevated in status. He and Scott have a plan to seize the captaincy of the lacrosse team and unseat Jackson, which will cause him to go into a frothing rage.

They sat around and compared their schedules the previous day. Stiles has English literature, which he shares with Lydia and Isaac, physics, which he shares with Lydia, Allison, and Boyd, modern American history, which he shares with everyone _except_ Lydia, who’s taking some world culture class. The daunting ‘AMF’, which stands for ‘advanced mathematical functions’ and is typically just called pre-calc, which only Lydia shares with him. Lastly, third-year Spanish, because being fluent in Spanish comes in handy in California, so that’s what he chose at the beginning of high school and he may as well stick with it. That’s it for his academics.

Then he has home economics, because screw the fact that tradition dictates that guys take shop and girls take home ec. He’d rather make a pie than a cabinet. If he wants a cabinet, he’ll get Derek to make it for him. Gym, of course, because everybody has to take gym, except Erica, who’s gotten out of it on the principle of her epilepsy even though she’s been seizure-free for six months now.

The others have an eclectic smattering of classes like art or music, varying levels of math and science. Scott’s opted to take anatomy instead of physics, because it will look good on his record when he applies to veterinary school. Erica decided to take economics instead of a math class because she’s pretty sure if she wears low-cut shirts, Finstock will give her an A regardless of whether or not she does any work.

Stiles feels like they should be having some sort of anniversary party, to celebrate the day that his life got turned upside down. But he can’t really suggest it. For Derek, this is the anniversary of the day his sister died. Everything else is secondary to that.

But in the end, they have a celebration of sorts anyway, because the weekend before school starts is when they break ground on the new house. By ‘they’ he means ‘the contractors’; Stiles knows nothing about house-building. Derek’s been working on the plans all summer. It’s being built on the Hale family property, as far away from the previous house as the landscape would allow. The ruins still stand there, but Derek has at least started _talking_ about maybe putting a memorial tree or something there instead. He won’t be ready for a while, but he’s getting there.

In the original design, the house was a modest, two-bed one-bath that Derek had obviously built with only himself in mind. Stiles was the one who pointed out that the place is likely to become pack central (since as much as they love Papa Stilinski, it’s more fun to hang out without adults around) and maybe he should make the bedroom a little bigger? Derek grudgingly agreed that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to do that, and maybe add another bathroom (or two). Then Stiles suggested maybe he should add on a studio so he wouldn’t have to drive into town when he wanted to work, which seemed like a pretty good idea. Isaac said something about maybe having a green house for plants, and Lydia wanted a separate study room or else they’ll never get their homework done, and Scott pointed out that the living room in the design was nowhere near big enough for a Mortal Kombat tournament and Stiles said, “you don’t seriously expect me to manage in a kitchen that small, right?”

So the house grew and grew until eventually everyone was satisfied with the plans and it was nearly the size of the original Hale house. Derek grumbled and complained about his house being hijacked, but he clearly enjoyed every minute of it, particularly after Stiles got him some architectural software that let him design in 3D.

While they were doing all this, Derek was calling for permits and talking to contractors and doing all that adult stuff that Stiles didn’t have a clue about. The night before school starts, the entire pack gathers on the Hale land and watches the contractors break ground to lay the foundation. It’s a nice moment.

He wakes up the morning that school starts to the beeping of his alarm, which is a strangely nice feeling to wake up to. Most people hate waking to their alarm, but for Stiles, that means that he slept the night through without nightmares, without having to get up and start baking to hold the panic at bay. Derek is curled up in his wolf form beside him, but other than that, he’s alone.

Stiles had expected the need for ‘wolf slumber parties’ to last their whole lives, but as the pack grew stronger, it had passed. Strangely, the fact that they were closer together meant that being _physically_ close wasn’t as important anymore. This isn’t to say that they don’t all sleep in a wolf pile at least two or three times a week, usually at Derek’s, where they have the most room. But as he lies there and swats at his alarm clock, he can feel all the others’ presence without needing them in the room. Allison’s excitement about a new school year; Lydia’s careful precision as she plans her back-to-school outfit and makes sure her earrings match her shoes. Scott’s grumbling about how early in the morning it is; Isaac’s anxiety about the classes he’s going to be taking and how different this year will be. Erica’s flash and fire as she argues with her mother about how short her skirt is; Boyd’s endless patience as he makes school lunches for each of his four younger siblings. They’re all there.

Isaac usually sleeps either at Scott’s, or wherever Stiles and Derek happens to be, since he doesn’t have a home to go to anymore. Erica and Allison are both required by their parents to spend at least three nights at home per week, although Erica often has one or more pack members crash on her floor when this happens. Boyd is largely responsible for his siblings, since his parents work so much, so even on pack nights, he’ll need to get up early and get home now that the school year has started.

“Rise and shine, sleepy wolf,” Stiles says, yawning and stretching. Derek makes a grumbling noise and doesn’t move. This is typical. He’s been complaining incessantly for the past week about how early they’re going to have to start getting up now that school will be back in session. Stiles just laughs and leaves him there, getting out of bed and heading to the shower.

In a way, it’s nice to have his own morning routine back, and not have to rush because six other people are waiting to use the bathroom. Scott and Isaac have always been the sort to crawl out of bed at the very last minute, so he was always nominated to get up early (unless he hadn’t been sleeping well, in which case nobody bothered him lest Derek snarl). So he takes his time in the shower, singing bad renditions of Elvis while he cleans up, then climbs out and wraps a towel around his waist. He rubs his hair dry and gives it a skeptical look. All the girls are adamant about the fact that the longer hair, standing up in loose spikes, looks a lot better on him than the buzz cut. He personally has no opinion on the matter, beyond wondering why it’s so important to them.

He gets dressed in a Captain America T-shirt and jeans, then jogs downstairs. His father has started the coffee maker and is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Stiles grins. His father is so old-fashioned sometimes; it always makes him laugh. “Morning,” he says, his front half disappearing into the refrigerator. “What happened to that turkey bacon I bought?”

“I put it in the freezer,” Stilinski says. “We needed the space.”

“Dad, you knew I was going to cook that for you . . .”

“Mm hm,” Stilinski says. “It was a safety issue. _Your_ safety.”

Stiles makes a face at his father and pulls out a carton of eggs instead. Just to annoy his father, he carefully separates out the yolks and cooks an egg-white omelet with broccoli and spinach for both of them. His father sighs but eats it regardless, with his whole wheat toast. “You know, my total cholesterol was very good on my last check,” he says.

“Good,” Stiles says. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He finishes eating his breakfast, and then it occurs to him that he still hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Derek, which is unusual. Typically, the wolf will notice within minutes of Stiles’ departure, and get out of bed if only to make sure everything’s okay. Once he’s up, the coffee will keep him up, at least until Stiles has left for school.

“Better hurry or you’ll be late,” Stilinski calls after him, as he jogs up the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles shouts back. He goes into his bedroom to find that Derek has shifted to his human form, but not gotten out of bed. “There’s coffee downstairs,” he says. “I’ve gotta head to school. See you later?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and then coughs. “Okay,” he says, and then coughs again. It’s not a healthy sounding cough, or a ‘food went down the wrong way’ cough. It’s a heavy, wet, phlegmy cough.

Stiles blinks. “Are you sick?” he asks.

“No,” Derek says. “Werewolves don’t get sick.” This sentences leads to another spate of coughing, this one prolonged and painful sounding. “Ugh.”

Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed. “You sure as hell sound sick,” he says, and presses his hand against the back of Derek’s neck. It’s a little warm, but Derek is always a little warm. “You don’t really feel feverish,” he adds, and gives a little shrug. “Well, stay in bed, I guess. Think of me suffering through class while you lie here in bed like a slug.”

Derek flips him off and pulls the blankets back over his head.

Stiles just laughs at him and jogs back down the stairs. “I’m outta here!” he shouts to his father, and bounces out the front door. He’s promised Erica and Boyd that he’ll pick them up, since neither of them has a car. Allison is going to pick up Scott and Isaac. He pulls up outside Boyd’s house first and gives the horn a light honk. Boyd appears only seconds later. He carefully locks up the front door and then gets in the Jeep.

“I appreciate you picking me up,” he says, because Boyd is that kind of person.

“No problem,” Stiles says cheerfully. “How’d the kids like those lemon cookies?”

“Oh, man, they devoured them,” Boyd says, laughing. “I didn’t get to eat any at all, so I hope you kept some for the rest of us.”

“Scott and Derek would rake me over the coals if I hadn’t,” Stiles says. The two of them chat about whether or not Boyd will try out for lacrosse – he’s athletic enough but not really a fan of organized sports – until they get to Erica’s house. She comes out wearing a form-hugging pink tank top and a little black skirt. Both Boyd and Stiles take a minute to admire her legs as she gets into the car and leans over to greet them.

“At least one teacher is going to try to send you home for wearing that outfit,” Boyd predicts.

Erica smirks at them. “I read the dress code. I have three quarters of an inch to spare on the skirt before it’s too short.”

“Of course you do,” Stiles says, amused.

School is loud and exciting and the day actually goes by pretty quickly. His literature teacher is hilarious, the physics class looks like it’s going to be insanely difficult, the pre-calc teacher is a hard-ass. He knows the Spanish teacher from the previous year, and the history professor gets ridiculously excited about being able to teach something besides the American Revolution. Home economics will be an easy A, at least until they get to sewing. He signs up for the lacrosse try-outs the following day.

Jackson is parading around with some floozy on his arm, and Stiles catches Lydia glaring at him once or twice. He knows that her basic opinion on Jackson these days is, ‘ugh, what did I ever see in him’, but it can’t be easy to see him with another girl. Erica, of course, has all the male attention she can stand. Stiles is astonished to find out that he’s now got something of a reputation as a player, since he’s frequently seen with Lydia and Erica, the two most attractive girls in school. Erica thinks this is hilarious and spends the lunch period in his lap, playing with his hair.

Since it’s the first day, they don’t have much homework, so they decide to each get their after-school stuff done and then convene at Derek’s to compare notes on their first day. Stiles comes home with his stack of books and dumps his backpack on the floor. When he jogs into his bedroom to get his laptop, he finds Derek still in bed. He laughs, startled. “Have you been in here all day?”

Derek lifts his head and starts to reply, but then is caught in another harsh, wracking coughing fit. It takes a minute to settle down. Then he croaks, “Yeah. Shit. Is school over already?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Wow, you must actually be sick. Have you taken anything?”

“Like . . . what?” Derek asks.

“I guess you wouldn’t know, huh,” Stiles says. “Here, I’ll make you some tea with honey.”

He jogs downstairs and this time brings his bag of school stuff back up with him, along with some other stuff. Derek makes ridiculous gagging noises just at the smell of cough syrup, but Stiles forces him to choke a tablespoon down. He takes his temperature and finds it elevated at 101.6. “Shit, you have a fever,” he says. “Here, drink this,” he adds, handing over the mug of tea.

“It’s not that bad,” Derek says. “Werewolves normally run a little warmer than people.”

“Right, I know,” Stiles says. “Scott told me that once. Around a hundred, right? You’ve still got a fever.”

Derek grumbles and sips the tea. “Werewolves don’t get sick,” he reiterates.

“All evidence to the contrary,” Stiles replies. He makes Derek take some Tylenol and sits down with his homework, trying to ignore the sound of Derek coughing and the vague emotional sense he feels of a wolf in his pack in distress. Eventually, Derek drifts off to sleep and the feeling quiets. Stiles doesn’t want to make him get up, so he shoots a quick text to the others to let them know to come to the Stilinski house instead of Derek’s.

“He’s sick?” Scott asks, startled, when he arrives. “I thought wolves couldn’t get sick. I mean, wasn’t that the whole point of turning Erica to begin with? And why my asthma doesn’t give me trouble anymore?”

Stiles lifts his hands in surrender. “Look, if you’ve got a better explanation for why he’s got a fever and a cough and looks like death warmed over . . .” He shrugs. “There must be some viruses potent enough to give even a werewolf trouble. He’s probably got some nasty strain of influenza. Give the wolf healing a day to fight it off and he’ll be good as new.”

In the meantime, everyone agrees that sick Derek is hilarious. All of them have had their turns with chicken pox, mononucleosis, the flu, and of course the usual assortment of viruses that come with being human. Erica in particular teases Derek about being a wimp when he finally shuffles out of bed, wearing one of Stiles’ bathrobes and groaning.

“You want some more tea?” Stiles asks, trying not to snicker.

Derek just groans and flops onto the sofa.

“You look like shit,” Isaac says to him. “Are you okay?”

“I feel terrible,” Derek says, and stifles another coughing fit.

Stiles checks his temperature again. He still has a fever, but it’s stable. So he gives him some more tea, this time with ginger and lemon in it. Derek curls up on the sofa and sips it slowly. “Ginger’s a natural anti-inflammatory,” Stiles tells him. Derek gives him a look that clearly conveys how little he cares. “Just trying to help,” Stiles says, and goes back to bitching about how difficult physics is going to be.

But he’s bothered by one thing, which is that if this virus is really _that_ virulent, he would think at least one of the other pack members would have gotten it. He and Allison are still human, with human immune systems; even if the other werewolves could fight it off, it’s surprising that neither of them are sick. He drinks two glasses of orange juice for the vitamin C and shepherds Derek back to bed. He doesn’t even want dinner, but Stiles pesters him until he eats some soup.

It’s difficult to sleep while he can hear Derek shifting and coughing next to him, and from the feel of the others, they’re not thrilled with it either. But they put up with it, and eventually Derek drifts into a sleep deep enough that the coughing stops. Relieved, Stiles dozes, but he doesn’t sleep very well.

The next morning, he’s awake when the alarm clock goes off. Derek stirs but doesn’t wake as the others rise to get ready for school. Stiles is going to let him sleep, but when he puts a hand on Derek’s forehead, it’s hot to the touch. “Damn,” he says underneath his breath. Derek opens his eyes and looks up at him somewhat pitifully. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Derek says, rolling onto his side. “I’m still exhausted. Why am I so tired? I got plenty of sleep.”

“Being sick will do that to you,” Stiles says. He checks Derek’s temperature. It’s gone up a degree, to 102.5. Stiles makes him more tea with honey, but he’s distracted while he does it. Could it be just a virus? Could that happen to a werewolf?

“I hurt all over,” Derek says, drinking the tea. “My head hurts and my back hurts and . . .”

“Your itty bitty pinkies hurt?” Erica suggests, and there’s a spate of giggling from the wolves.

“Fuck you,” Derek retorts, with none of his usual vigor.

“It definitely sounds like the flu,” Scott says, when Stiles gives him a questioning look. “Severe exhaustion, head and body ache, fever, cough. That’s the flu all over.”

“Great,” Stiles says.

Scott gives a little shrug. “I guess being a werewolf can’t fix everything. Just make sure he gets plenty of fluids and keep him in bed.”

“Not a problem,” Derek croaks, pulling the blankets over his head.

Stiles wants to stay home from school, but his father doesn’t agree with that plan. “It’s only your second day, son,” he says, when Stiles brings this up. “And in terms of academics, the second day is really the first day. Let’s not start the year off by missing a bunch of classes.” He sees Stiles hesitate and says, “Tell you what, I’ll come check on him during my lunch hour. And if he’s not feeling better when you get home, why don’t we call Melissa to come check him over?”

“Okay,” Stiles says, but he’s not sure he likes this plan. He looks over at Derek and says, “You’ll be okay without me?”

Derek mumbles something incoherent.

Stiles heads off to school with sincere misgivings. Everyone else seems to think that this is moderately hilarious, but something about it just doesn’t seem right to him. All of them are so close that if one of them was going to get a contagious disease, they should all have it. He does a little quick research while he waits for his first class to start, to make sure he’s correct about how the flu is transmitted. He is. It seems odd that Derek is the only one who’s sick. Besides that, it’s not flu season.

He texts Derek between every class to remind him to stay well-hydrated and ask if he needs anything. Half the time, these texts get no response, and he assumes that Derek is sleeping. Rest is the best thing for him, but he still has to resist the urge to run home and make _sure_ that’s the reason the wolf isn’t responding.

When he gets home, Derek is curled up in his wolf form underneath every spare blanket in the house. Chills are another common symptom of the flu, but Derek is actually shivering. Stiles curls around him instinctively, but Derek is radiating heat like an oven. His fever has gone up again. Stiles mutters curses underneath his breath and wonders what to do.

“Well, shit, do I bring you to a doctor or to a vet?” he asks, and Derek gives him the dirtiest of dirty looks. “I’m serious, asshole, you’re the one who’s a wolf right now.”

Derek slumps. He doesn’t seem to want to change forms, and to be fair, Stiles is thinking that Dr. Deaton might be a better bet than Melissa anyway. If it’s the flu, they’ll both know. If it’s something else, something weird, Dr. Deaton will know more than she will. “C’mon,” he says to Derek. “We’re off to see the wizard.”

His phone rings just as he’s standing up, and he sees that it’s Scott. “Just the person I wanted to talk to,” he says, picking it up. “Do you work today?”

“Uh, no.” Scott sounds a little funny. “Where are you?”

“Home, duh,” Stiles says. “I came to check on Derek. He’s still feeling pretty awful and I was thinking I might swing by the clinic. Where else would I be?”

“Nothing, never mind,” Scott says hastily. “No, I don’t work today. But I’m sure Dr. Deaton won’t mind if you stop by. You want me to call him?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles says. “I’ll see you later.”

He hangs up and tucks his phone away in his pocket, wondering what all that was about but quickly dismissing the thought. Knowing Scott, it could be anything that had him distracted, up to and including the shirt Allison was wearing. He has more important things to worry about. He puts the hated collar and leash on Derek and gets him out into the car. The wolf shuffles along with his head down.

Dr. Deaton greets them with his usual pleasant smile and says, “Well, what do we have here?”

“Derek’s feeling a little under the weather,” Stiles says. “Since he seems to be more comfortable as a wolf right now, I decided to bring him here.”

“Okay,” Deaton says. Since Derek isn’t about to hop up onto the table, he kneels down on the floor. “What sort of symptoms?”

“Fever, chills, cough, aches, general ickiness,” Stiles says. He gives a little shrug and says, “Honestly, if he weren’t a wolf, I wouldn’t have worried about it. But it seems kind of weird that he would suddenly get the flu. He’s never been sick in his life. None of the rest of us have any symptoms at all, so it doesn’t seem to be infectious, whatever it is.”

Deaton nods a little while Stiles talks about this, then takes out his stethoscope and presses it against Derek’s chest. Derek allows this, although he certainly doesn’t look thrilled with it. He looks in Derek’s ears and down his throat, shines a little pen flashlight in his eyes, which makes Derek growl at him.

“You may want to shift back so I can take your temperature,” he tells Derek. “You wouldn’t like where the thermometer goes for dogs.”

Stiles chokes back a laugh. Derek huffs and shifts back, but immediately starts shivering. Stiles was prepared for this eventuality, and wraps him in a blanket. Deaton puts the thermometer in his ear and it beeps. “103.3,” he says.

“That’s higher than it was yesterday,” Stiles says, unable to curb the anxiety in his voice.

“Mm,” Deaton says. He sits back, obviously comfortable seated on the floor with both of them. “The lack of contagion is odd, but there’s actually an easy explanation. Werewolves _can_ get sick, but as Derek says, it’s extremely rare. I’ve seen wolves who’ve gotten bad infections. Typically speaking, the more virulent it is, the more likely a wolf will get it. The most likely reason that he’s sick but the rest of you are not is that he has something that you’ve been vaccinated against.”

“Oh!” Stiles feels a well of relief at this explanation. “I guess that would make sense. I mean, we’ve all had our MMR and our TDaP. The school system requires it. I mean, you can get an exemption but I don’t think any of us have. But the Hale family probably didn’t bother, right? Being werewolves and all.”

Deaton nods. “There are also illnesses that born wolves are susceptible to that humans and made wolves are not,” he says. “Like, well, you’ll laugh, but kennel cough and distemper have been seen in born wolves. Dogs are routinely vaccinated against such things, but werewolves aren’t.”

Stiles stifles another laugh. “Okay. So what’s your best guess, doc?”

“It could be pertussis, although he’s not really making the whooping noise that should go with it,” Deaton says. “Diptheria is less common but still a possibility. He’s got swollen glands, so he could also have mononucleosis. That’s not highly contagious, and once you’ve had it, you don’t usually get it a second time. Do you know if you or any of the others have had mono?”

“Scott and I _definitely_ have; we got it at the same time when we were eleven,” Stiles says. He vividly remembers that fun summer. “I don’t know about any of the others.”

“My real concern would be meningitis,” Deaton says. “That’s a common one for wolves to get because of how virulent it is. Wolves who have been healthy all their lives, when they get sick for the first time, you always want to check for meningitis. He doesn’t really have the neck stiffness, but sometimes wolves won’t get all the classic symptoms; it depends on what their healing chooses to focus on. So if you don’t mind me doing a few tests . . .”

“No, no, whatever you think is appropriate,” Stiles says. He’s nearly drowning in relief that there’s a logical explanation for all this. That he can relax a little. He stays with Derek while Dr. Deaton takes a few samples – some blood and a throat swab, and then does the lumbar puncture to check for meningitis. That apparently hurts like a bitch, because Derek growls the whole time, although he doesn’t move.

“I’ll run these overnight,” Dr. Deaton says, “and call you guys in the morning. Until then, just keep doing what you’re doing. Plenty of fluids, plenty of rest. Tylenol or ibuprofen to bring the fever down. Double the recommended dose – wolves metabolize things more quickly. I’ll write you a prescription for cough syrup with codeine – that ought to help him get some sleep.”

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Stiles says.

“Thanks,” Derek adds grudgingly, when Stiles elbows him. He shifts back and they head for home, making a quick stop at the pharmacy to get the prescription filled. Once they’re home, Stiles doses him with cough syrup and Tylenol and tea, and steers him onto the sofa. By the time he’s finished the tea, the codeine is taking effect, and he falls into a dead sleep. Stiles watches him for a little while and sees that his breathing is easier, his body more relaxed.

He’s so relieved that all he can do is just curl up with Derek and nap for a little while, even though he knows he should be doing his homework. The night’s uneasy sleep and the stress of the day have taken their toll on him.

He jolts awake about an hour later when the front door bangs open and half the pack troops in. Boyd has gone home to make sure his younger siblings do their homework and get dinner, and Allison has gone home to appease her parents, but everyone else is there.

“He looks a lot better,” Lydia says, and Stiles sums up what Dr. Deaton told him.

“I think doubling the dose of the Tylenol really helped,” he says, pressing his hand against Derek’s cheek. “He’s a lot cooler. And he’s definitely sleeping better.”

“Poor baby,” Erica says, laughing. “He has no idea what’s happened to him, does he.”

“Nope,” Stiles says. Now he can afford to be amused and laugh with them at Derek’s misery. “Hey, Scott, what was up earlier? I didn’t even think to ask why you were calling me.”

Scott squirms a little uncomfortably, but says, “Uh, well, I was calling to see where you were. Because you were supposed to be at lacrosse try-outs.”

“Fuck!” Stiles slaps his palm against his forehead. “I forgot all about it.”

“Well, don’t worry too much,” Scott says. “You know Finstock. Just show up for practice tomorrow, I’ll tell him you made first line, point to some illegible scribble on his roster, and he’ll claim he remembers doing it so he doesn’t look like an idiot.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and laughs again. “I’ll owe you one for that.”

“It wouldn’t be as much fun without you,” Isaac says.

Stiles waves this off, embarrassed, and sets down to do his homework with the others. He’s fidgety, so in between bouts of physics and math, he gets up and works in the kitchen, making chicken noodle soup. Home remedies are the best remedies a lot of the time. They finish up their homework just as Boyd arrives from his house. Allison is staying home, so Lydia and Erica decide to go keep her company. It’s only the boys, so they sit down to watch The Fast and the Furious. Derek snoozes on, never once disturbed.

Stiles wakes him long enough to make him eat some of the soup. He’s a little hoarse, but says he feels better, less achy. His temperature is back down to the low hundreds, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Just before bed, he gives Derek another dose of the Tylenol and cough syrup, and they all sleep in a pile in Stiles’ room.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic does start a little bit slower than the others, mostly so I could take plenty of time tormenting poor, sick Derek. I hope nobody minds. ^_^

The next morning, Derek still has a low-grade fever, but it isn’t any worse than the day before. Stiles waits impatiently for Dr. Deaton’s call, which fortunately for him comes before school starts. “What’s the news, doc?”

“Well, the good news is that it’s not meningitis,” Dr. Deaton says. “The bad news is that _everything_ came back negative, so we still don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with here.”

Stiles gives a little grimace. “But it could just be a particularly nasty virus, right?” he asks.

“Yes, it could still be mono,” Deaton says. “Those titers take a little longer to come back, so I don’t have the results yet. Did any of you get a flu shot last year? Because it may theoretically still be protecting you, depending on the strain.”

“I know Scott did, because of his asthma,” Stiles says. Scott had been a werewolf at the time, but his mother hadn’t known it yet, and he had gotten his yearly flu shot regardless. “I bet Erica did, too. But I don’t think any of the rest of us would have, and I know that I didn’t. Save some for the pregnant and the elderly, y’know?”

“Well, then, I’d say mono is the most likely explanation,” Deaton says. “How was he feeling this morning?”

“Better,” Stiles says. “His fever was lower and he’s been coughing less.”

“Okay. Then hopefully it’ll pass in a few days. Keep me updated.”

“Thanks for everything,” Stiles says, and hangs up.

He’s glad now for the heavy academic schedule. It keeps him from worrying all day, which to be fair is one of the reasons he did it. He worries a lot, even when there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. But it’s hard to worry while trying to keep up with Ms. Beaulieu’s explanation of Ohm’s Law, or Miss Jimenez’s lesson on the beginning of the Vietnam War. He keeps his head in his books and notes all day, and then finally heads to lacrosse practice.

He texts Derek a couple of times during the day, and gets responses devoid of both emotion and grammar. ‘How are you feeling?’ at ten AM is met with just ‘ok’. ‘Am I missing any good soaps on TV?’ at eleven thirty is met with, ‘you suck’. Ten minutes later, Derek says, ‘going to sleep for a while’, so Stiles doesn’t text him again until school is actually over. Then he sends him a message to remind him that he’s going to lacrosse practice so he won’t be home until about four thirty. He gets no reply, and assumes that Derek is still sleeping, so he texts again to tell him there’s leftover soup in the fridge if he gets hungry, and not to forget about taking his medication, since he knows that Derek might not think of it on his own.

As Scott had suggested, Stiles just shows up on the field like he tried out with everyone else. “Nice of you to join us,” Jackson snipes at him. Stiles ignores him. When Finstock starts going down his list, there are at least four names where he can’t read his handwriting, and Scott helpfully volunteers that the scribble that starts with ‘S’ obviously has to be Stilinski.

“You weren’t even at the friggin’ try-outs,” Jackson protests.

“Yeah, I was,” Stiles replies. “Don’t know how you could have missed seeing me. I mean, I would have had to be pretty awesome to make first line, right?”

“Yeah, that’s how I know you weren’t here,” Jackson says.

“Blow it out your ass,” Stiles says, smirking at him.

Jackson seethes, but since Finstock believes Scott and can’t read his own handwriting, he doesn’t have a lot of recourse. That, of course, adds a whole new level of violence to the practice. Jackson’s learned not to mess with Scott and Isaac, although he sometimes does anyway, but he obviously feels like Stiles is fair game. He’s never figured out exactly what went on with Stiles; he assumes he’s a werewolf but has better control of his extra strength so as not to draw attention. Unlike Scott, Stiles has never dislocated Jackson’s shoulder by accident. And unlike Isaac, Stiles has never dislocated Jackson’s shoulder on purpose.

The girls are there, cheering them on from the sidelines, although Boyd, who decided against trying out, has gone home to take care of his siblings. Every time Stiles does something particularly awesome, he walks over to the sidelines and says, “Ladies,” which causes Erica and Lydia to both hug and kiss him. Seeing Jackson turn redder and redder each time is totally worth every new bruise he gets.

Stiles decides to shower after practice because he’s sweaty and dirty, and the wolves have a much more sensitive sense of smell than he does. Scott and Isaac do the same, so it’s past four by the time they leave the school grounds. They’ve just gotten in the Jeep when Stiles’ phone rings. He glances down to see that it’s Boyd calling, and grabs it. “Yo, what’s up?”

“Man, you’d better get home,” Boyd says. “Derek’s a lot worse.”

“Shit.” Stiles feels panic flare up in every inch of his body. He hangs up without saying anything else and says, “Hang on,” to Lydia and Erica, who are riding with him. He peels out of the school parking lot in a screech of protesting rubber. The drive from the Stilinski house to the school normally takes about ten minutes; this time he makes it in six, narrowly skating through two yellow lights and leaving Allison’s car in the dust.

He bolts out of the car as soon as he’s gotten the keys out of the ignition and runs into the house. Boyd’s waiting for him, sitting on the steps. “What happened?” Stiles demands.

“I just came straight here from my house and let myself in,” Boyd says. “He’d fallen out of bed. I think he was maybe trying to get to his phone? I got him back in bed, but he’s _really_ hot to the touch, like burning hot, and he didn’t seem to recognize me.”

Stiles swears and takes the steps two at a time, skidding into his bedroom. Derek’s back on the bed in his human form, again covered with blankets, but Stiles doesn’t need to even touch him to feel the fever. He realizes now that the physical stress and pain of lacrosse practice has kept him from noticing Derek’s distress. Now it’s crashing against him in waves. Derek is pale, his skin beaded with sweat, each breath rasping in his throat.

“Derek,” he says, his voice hushed as he kneels down at the side of the bed. “Hey, Derek.”

The older man opens one eye and looks at him blearily. “Mmf,” he says.

“Open up, gonna take your temperature,” Stiles says, and gets the thermometer into his mouth. It comes back at 104.9. “Holy Jesus fuck,” Stiles says. “Derek, we’ve gotta get these blankets off you.”

“Cold,” Derek protests, his voice barely a mumble.

“Yeah, I know you _feel_ cold, but we’ve gotta get this fever down,” Stiles says, peeling the layers off him. Derek feebly tries to grab the blankets back, but Stiles just shoves his hands away. He shouldn’t be able to do it so easily. “Have you drunk anything today?” he asks.

“Tried to,” Derek says. “But my throat hurt so bad.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says. He leans into the hallway and says, “Hey, will someone bring a glass of water up here?” He goes back to the bed, where Derek is shivering. “No, don’t shift,” he says, seeing Derek about to do so. “I can’t monitor your temperature if you shift.” Derek lets out a low growl that’s really more of a whimper and curls up around him instead.

Scott comes in with a glass of water. “Holy crap,” he says. “He looks awful. I haven’t seen him look that bad since he got – ”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says. He doesn’t need to think about the night that Derek got shot with wolfsbane and nearly kicked off in his Jeep. Those are not helpful memories right now. He grabs the bottle of Tylenol on the dresser and shakes four pills out into his hand. “Get him to take those. I need to call Dr. Deaton.”

The clinic’s number gives him a recording, but it has an emergency number on it, so Stiles calls that instead. He gets the operator to put him through to Dr. Deaton’s cell phone, only realizing after the fact that Scott probably knows it. “Dr. Deaton, it’s Stiles,” he says. “Listen, Derek’s a _lot_ worse and I’m not sure what to do.”

“Worse how?” Dr. Deaton sounds as calm as he always does.

“He’s not coughing so much anymore, but his fever is really high, nearly 105,” Stiles says. “He says he’s freezing cold, and he’s shivering. He says his throat hurt too much to drink anything, and when he tried to get out of bed to either call me or take his medicine, he passed out and fell over. He was confused and disoriented when Boyd found him that way.”

“I’m going to come right over,” Deaton says. That has the effect of making Stiles feel both a lot better and a lot worse. Better, because he can turn this over into the hands of a professional. But worse, because Deaton obviously thinks this is something serious. “I’ll just need to stop at my clinic and pick up a few things. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”

“Okay, yes, okay. Thank you.”

Stiles paces around the room while he waits, and dispatches Scott to update the others. He reminds himself that he has an entire pack to take care of, not just Derek. “I’m going to be right back, okay?” he says to Derek, who just blinks up at him and then curls a hand around his forearm. “Or not,” Stiles says, and takes out his phone and calls Scott.

“Uh, you know I’m right downstairs, right?” Scott says.

“Yeah, well, I don’t feel like shouting,” Stiles says. “Look, you’re in charge for the night. There’s some sandwich stuff in the fridge. Will you make sure everybody eats something, tell them I’ll be up here if anybody needs me and for now just to do their homework like everything’s normal?”

“Sure,” Scott says.

Stiles puts down his phone for a minute, but then picks it up and dials his father. “Hey, what shift are you on today?”

“Swing,” Stilinski says. “I’ll be home around eleven. Why, do you need me?”

“Derek’s sick, like _really_ sick,” Stiles says. “I may need you to pick some stuff up.”

“Okay. Just let me know.”

Stiles hangs up and runs his hand through Derek’s hair. The wolf has curled up around him in search of warmth, even though Stiles can feel the heat radiating off of him. He swallows down his panic, holding it at bay with grim determination.

Dr. Deaton arrives with a bag full of things and comes into Stiles’ bedroom with his usual reassuring smile. “Not your best day, hm?” he says to Derek, setting the bag down. Derek murmurs something but doesn’t respond. Deaton listens to his heart and his lungs while Stiles tries to calm down his shivering. “When was the last time he had Tylenol?”

“Right before I called you,” Stiles says.

“And his fever then was . . .?”

“104.9.”

“Then it hasn’t really gone down much.” Deaton is quiet for a few moments. “He’s obviously dehydrated, so the first thing we need to do is get some fluids into him.”

“I tried to get him to drink, but . . .”

“We’re a little beyond that point now.” Dr. Deaton starts pulling equipment out of his bag, including what he’ll need to set up an IV. “Derek, if you could let me see your arm.”

Derek isn’t really listening, so Stiles takes his arm and holds it steady while Deaton slides the needle in. Derek flinches but not with enough force to disturb them. Deaton gets the IV hooked up and hangs a bag of saline on the handle of one of the bureau drawers.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks, frustrated.

“I’ll be honest with you, Stiles; I’m not sure. What I’m going to do now is treat this like an illness, probably some kind of high-grade infection.” He starts looking through his bag and pulls out a vial of medicine and a syringe. “We’re going to start him on a high dose of broad spectrum antibiotics. Hopefully that, along with the saline, will get his fever down. Go ahead and cover him up. We don’t want him going into shock.”

Stiles nods and pulls the blankets back over Derek, who huddles into a ball underneath them. “Did you ever get that last blood test?”

“The Epstein-Barr titers? Yes, those were negative, too. So this isn’t mono.” Deaton sits down in Stiles’ desk chair. “I’ve never seen a werewolf get this sick. At least, not from a natural cause. The wolf healing should have fought this off by now, regardless of what it was.”

“So if it’s not a natural cause, then what is it?” Stiles asks, and swallows hard. “Wolfsbane or something like that?”

“There are a few supernatural poisons that could have effects like this,” Deaton says, “but I don’t know how one would have found its way into his system without affecting the rest of you. It’s possible, of course, but since the illness began, he’s stayed here except for the visit to my clinic, and I doubt he’s eaten anything that hasn’t come directly from you. Which means that the toxin would have to be airborne, in which case you all would have been exposed.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, nodding. “What, then?”

Deaton hesitates for a second before saying, “Witchcraft is a possibility, although I don’t know why someone would have targeted Derek. There are spells you can use to hurt someone from a distance.”

“How do we find out?” Stiles asks, frustrated. “I mean, how could we stop them?”

“One thing at a time,” Deaton says. “If this is an illness, the treatment should help. If he doesn’t feel better by morning, we’ll have to consider other possibilities. On the off chance it is a poison, I’m going to draw some more blood to test for the ones I know of. Okay?”

Stiles nods. He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it standing in lopsided spikes, trying not to show how frustrated he is. He knows that Deaton is trying to help, and that being methodical is the best way to go about this. He knows that Derek is tough, and can survive almost anything that’s thrown at him. But it’s hard to be rational when his lupa’s distress is something he can feel in every inch of his body.

“Stiles,” Deaton says, “we’ll work this out. Okay?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, thanks.”

He runs downstairs to check on the others while Deaton is doing a more thorough physical exam, just to check for an infected wound or anything that he might have somehow missed. They’re sitting around, eating sandwiches and doing their homework. Scott was apparently removed from the role of stand-in pack mommy because of incompetence, leaving Boyd to make sure everyone was properly fed. This brings a tiny smile to Stiles’ mouth. He can just picture Scott staring into the refrigerator and saying, “Uh . . .” until Boyd rolled his eyes and took over.

“Dr. Deaton is starting Derek on some drugs,” he says. “Antibiotics and that sort of thing. Hopefully he should feel better by morning.”

“But what’s going on?” Lydia asks. “I’ve been doing research and there’s only three recorded cases of a lycanthrope suffering from any sort of natural illness.”

“That’s probably because most people don’t bother writing it down,” Erica says. “Sheesh, y’all are such babies.”

Stiles tries to see the humor in things, but fails to smile. “Well, Dr. Deaton says he’s seen it before, particularly because born wolves don’t typically get vaccinated against all the stuff humans are vaccinated against. But we’ve ruled out most of the likely suspects, so he says for now we’ll just treat the symptoms and see if that helps.”

“What are the other possibilities?” Allison asks.

“Poison,” Stiles says, “which he’s going to draw some blood to test for. And magic.”

Nobody seems happy with those answers, but Stiles wants to get back upstairs to Derek, so they don’t have much more discussion about it. He grabs his backpack so he can at least start his homework. Deaton is packing up his bag when he gets back to his room. Derek has fallen asleep again.

“Listen,” Deaton says, “I don’t want to alarm you, but there is another possibility. This could be some illness he’s had all along, but never noticed because his werewolf healing handled it.”

“You mean his healing abilities could be failing?” Stiles asks.

“For a variety of reasons,” Deaton says, “primarily just because they’ve been stressed for so long that they’re finally giving out.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip for a minute, then forces himself to be rational. “I don’t think so,” he says. “He’s gone through some pretty terrible injuries. Peter practically ripped his lungs and his spine out. Then he got shot by Kate twice, the night Peter . . .” He skips over the rest of the incident. He’s never been sure of exactly what Deaton does and doesn’t know. “If his healing could be overstressed enough to cause the emergence of some genetic or congenital illness, I think we would have seen it by now.”

“That’s true,” Deaton says. “There’s an easy enough way to check this, but I didn’t want to do it without asking your permission.” When Stiles just gives him a questioning look, Deaton shrugs a little and says, “Injure him.”

Stiles swallows. He doesn’t like it, but it’s worth checking out, if only to rule out the possibility. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” He runs his hands over his hair again, then goes into his desk drawer and takes out one of his knives. He’s been learning to use a variety of weapons lately, but the knife is something he uses more for utility purposes. He leans over and speaks right into Derek’s ear. “Derek. Hey. You awake?”

Derek stirs slightly. “Mm?”

“We want to make sure your healing isn’t affected by whatever’s going on. I’m just gonna make a little cut on your arm. Okay?”

Derek shifts a little and says, “’Kay,” then appears to fall back to sleep. Stiles takes a deep breath and then draws the knife against the back of Derek’s forearm. Blood blooms out of the cut, but it closes almost immediately, just as it normally would. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

“At least we’ve ruled something out,” he says.

Deaton nods. “Well, he should sleep pretty soundly,” he says. “There’s a painkiller-slash-sedative in the drug cocktail I gave him. The IV bag will run dry in about four hours. I’m leaving some replacements here; Scott knows how to change them out. Check his temperature every hour. If it goes over one-oh-five, take him to the emergency room. Call me and I’ll meet you there.”

“I don’t think you have admitting privileges,” Stiles says, with an almost hysterical laugh.

“They know me there,” Deaton says, with a rather enigmatic smile. “But hopefully it won’t come to that. I’ll call you when I’m up for the day to check on him.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

Deaton nods and leaves. Stiles sits and watches the IV drip-drip-drip for what feels like a long time. Derek’s sleeping more peacefully now, and there’s a little bit of color in his cheeks. Stiles takes his temperature again, and it’s dropped back down to 103.4. With a sigh, he takes out his books and starts his homework. It’s going to be a long night.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek sleeps soundly for several hours, and his temperature drops another degree by the time it’s late enough that everyone is thinking about going to bed. Allison texts Stiles at one point asking if he wants company upstairs, but Stiles replies that he doesn’t want to disturb Derek with chatter and he’s fine by himself. Before he had the pack, he spent a lot of time by himself. It doesn’t really bother him.

But it’s clear that nobody’s going to let him sleep alone or stay up all night. When Scott comes up to change the IV bag around ten PM, the others are trailing upstairs with him. “You look wrecked,” he says to Stiles. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Some,” Stiles says. “I’m okay.”

“Why don’t we take the night in shifts?” Isaac suggests. “That way nobody will miss out on much sleep.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but then rubs both hands over his face and forces himself to face reality. Without chemical intervention, there’s no way he can stay up all night. He’s bound to fall asleep whether he wants to or not. Derek undoubtedly would not approve of him dosing himself with caffeine and Adderall, and to be fair, if he has to spend the entire night cooped up in his room, his claustrophobia will set in sooner rather than later. “Yeah,” he says, “okay, that’s a good idea.”

There’s a quick debate about shifts. There are seven of them and it’s eight hours until they have to be up for the day, so everyone’s shift will last about an hour and ten minutes. Lydia volunteers to take the first one, since she’s not tired enough to sleep yet. Scott will by necessity get the one in the middle, since Derek’s IV will need to be changed out again at that point. Stiles takes the last one, since once he’s gotten to sleep nobody will want to wake him, but he says he’ll trade if he wakes up on his own. The others draw straws and settle down into a pile on the floor. Stiles makes himself some herbal tea and takes his melatonin. It works about as well as it usually does, and ten minutes later he’s crawling underneath the blankets next to Derek.

It feels strange to sleep with the other man in his human form, since Derek prefers to sleep as a wolf and Stiles long ago got used to using him as a pillow and/or teddy bear. He lies on his back and blinks sleepily at the ceiling until he dozes off.

He does wake twice during the night – once after a nightmare and once when Isaac is shuffling Derek to the bathroom – but falls back to sleep both times. Allison gently shakes him awake when it’s time for his shift. “I’m just going to stay up,” she says in a low voice, with that sweet smile of hers. “Gonna go take a hot shower.”

“How is he?” Stiles murmurs.

“Still asleep,” she says. “But his fever’s a lot lower. 101.4, almost back to normal.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay,” he says, and climbs out of bed. Allison leaves to take her shower. He sits down next to Derek and sees a stack of post-it notes that someone has taken off his desk. The others have written little notes during their shift. Lydia obviously started the trend, since she had the first watch. Her neat handwriting states, “10:22 PM, all quiet on the Western front. Some coughing, not too bad. Don’t worry, Stiles, I’m sure he’ll be fine in a day or two.”

In between the medical updates like, “1:05 AM, woke up for a while, needed to use the bathroom. I had to help him but he was pretty steady on his feet,” in Isaac’s neatly packed handwriting and “2:15 AM. Temp is 102.1. Seemed to be having a little trouble breathing so I propped him up a bit with an extra pillow. That helped a lot. Always helped me too. :)” in Scott’s scrawl, there are bits of encouragement like, “looks a lot better now than he did earlier, the meds sure are helping” and “he’s going to kick my ass when he finds out how many pictures of his pathetic face I’ve taken” and lastly, “I hope he gets better before one of us needs to give him a sponge bath, yikes”.

Stiles can’t help but smile at the reassuring antics of his pack. Since everything seems to be stable, he starts thinking about food. Derek’s face looks narrow and gaunt, and Stiles can almost _see_ the weight he’s lost. He knows that the healing process takes a lot of energy, that the wolf typically eats more to compensate for it. He’s seen all of them gorge themselves after injuries, even routine ones like the ones received at lacrosse practice. Derek’s burning off too much energy but not replacing it.

So he goes down to the kitchen and makes a family-sized pot of oatmeal, adding in extra brown sugar, ginger, and nutmeg. His father is still asleep, so he takes care to do it quietly. There isn’t a lot else to eat at the moment, so he hopes nobody is too hungry. He dishes up a bowl and goes back up to his room.

 He hesitates for a moment before waking Derek, not wanting to disturb his rest, but the man has been sleeping for what seems like three days straight now. He needs food more than sleep. So Stiles gives his shoulder a gentle nudge. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, you. Wake up. Breakfast.”

Derek’s eyes flutter open, and he blinks a few times when he sees Stiles, mumbling something incoherent before waking up enough to say, “Time is it?”

“About five thirty,” Stiles says. “How are you feeling?”

There’s a pause for self-assessment. “Better,” he says. “Throat’s still pretty sore.” He leans over and coughs a few times. “I ache less, though.”

“God knows you’re on enough painkillers to tranq an elephant,” Stiles says. “Maybe even a were-elephant.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Breakfast,” Stiles says, and holds out the bowl. Derek looks at the oatmeal and sighs. “C’mon, it’s got ginger and nutmeg in it. Think of it like an extremely smushy gingersnap cookie.”

“That would be really compelling if I could smell anything at all,” Derek says, rubbing his hand across his nose. “Eating just seems like too much effort.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. “I’ve been sick, you know.”

“Don’t know how you stand it,” Derek says. “Jesus. Being human must . . . suck.”

“Eat your oatmeal,” Stiles says, amused despite himself, and Derek groans but obeys. His hands are shaky, and Stiles has to support them several times, but he manages to get by well enough without actively needing to be fed, which is somewhat of a relief to his pride. By the end of the bowl, he seems to have realized how hungry he is, and eats a second one without prompting while the others are getting up and getting ready for school.

“You know,” Lydia says, as she applies her makeup, “you should probably go to school, Stiles.”

“Fuck that,” Stiles says. “I went to school yesterday and the genius here didn’t eat or drink or take his medicine all day.”

“Do you even know how to change out the IV?” Scott says, checking to see how much medicine Dr. Deaton has left them.

“No, so you’d better show me,” Stiles says.

The others look at each other and exchange some eye-rolling glances. Then Erica says, “Look, Stiles, why don’t I stay home with him today?” She sees him open his mouth to protest and adds, “I miss school all the time; nobody will bat an eyelash. The teachers all have specific instructions about letting me make up my work and shit. It’s not so easy for you.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Stiles says, squirming.

“On top of that, you’ve got a _way_ heavier schedule than I do,” Erica says. “Come on. Do you even have a study hall?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Didn’t think so. Let’s sum up. I’m taking economics. You’re taking pre-calc. I’m taking earth sciences, rocks for jocks. You’re taking level one physics. You shouldn’t miss a day if you don’t have to.”

Stiles hedges for a minute. He doesn’t want to leave Derek, but Erica has a real point about the difficulty of his classes. He looks at Derek. “Would you be okay?”

“Don’t leave me alone with her, are you crazy?” Derek asks, and when Erica leans over and ruffles his hair, he manages a wan smile and says, “I’ll be fine. You go to school.”

Seeing that he’s on the fence, Erica says, “I’ll text you every hour to let you know how he’s doing. And text you if anything changes. And before you ask, I already know how to change out the IV and do all that stuff. I’ve seen it done a zillion times. No worries.”

“I guess it’d be okay,” Stiles says. He really doesn’t want to fall behind on his school work if he can avoid it. And although he doesn’t want to say this out loud, if things get worse, he’s _definitely_ going to be missing school, so he may as well attend while he can. Before he can say anything else, maybe give Erica specific instructions on exactly how often she should be texting him, his phone rings. He sees that it’s Dr. Deaton and picks up.

“How’s Derek doing this morning?” Deaton asks.

“Definitely a lot better,” Stiles says. “His fever is down to 101.4, and he says he feels better. I got him to eat some breakfast, too.”

“Okay, good,” Deaton says. “I’m going to run over in an hour or so to check on him and give him another dose of the antibiotics. Will you be home?”

“Erica’s going to stay with him today so I can go to school,” Stiles says. “She’ll let you in. Shit, I probably owe you a ton of money for all this stuff, don’t I.”

There’s a slight pause, and then Dr. Deaton says, “You don’t have to mention this to Derek, but actually his parents made sure that any care he needed would be covered in their will. So you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay.” He decides that he’ll hold off on talking about that until Derek is feeling better. “Oh, hey, did those tests come back?”

“For the supernatural poisons? Yes, all negative,” Deaton says. “Since he’s responding to treatment, I’m not going to change anything right now. But, well . . . let’s keep an eye on him. I still can’t conceive of any natural disease that could have affected a werewolf like this, and if magic is involved, things could change quickly.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, I have [a tumblr](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com) now! Check me out! You know, if you want to. I promise there will be geekery of a wide variety. =D

 

Stiles still doesn’t really want to go to school, and he makes Erica promise to text him about eight different times, and then makes the rest of them promise that they won’t get annoyed with him if he decides to leave school in the middle of the day. At least it’s Friday, the school year having started on a Tuesday, so he’ll have two days off to figure this out if it doesn’t get better.

True to her word, Erica texts him every hour. Actually, she texts him far more often than that, and her texts range from informative (“Dr. D just came by, pumped Derek full of drugs, says he’s looking much better”) to hilarious (“Bathroom trip! Sour wolf did not appreciate me asking if he needed me to hold his dick”) to hilariously informative (“now he’s coughing up disgusting gunk of an exciting variety of colors. oh well, better out than in I guess.”)

In fact, at least once, her texting gets him into trouble. He’s sitting in his history class around 10 AM when he receives a series of texts in quick succession. “must be feeling better, complaining about being bored. wants to borrow my phone to play games.” is at 10:06 AM, then “j/k the twat just wanted to see what I was texting you. now he’s not speaking to me.” is at 10:12. Five minutes later, he receives a picture of Derek making the most hilarious little pouting face and the text “I just wanna pinch his cheek” and then a picture of her doing so while Derek looks vaguely homicidal.

The last picture makes him snicker loud enough to get the teacher’s attention, who warns him to put his phone away before he loses it. Reluctantly, Stiles tucks it back into his pocket. He takes it out again for the eleven AM update, which worries him a little because Derek’s temperature is rising again, although Erica assures him that he’s still feeling okay, all things considered.

Her noon update is late because she was getting him some lunch, but she lets him know that she’s nagged Derek into eating a bowl of the soup. “So now we’re having a MLP: Friendship is Magic marathon. He’s totally digging it. Don’t let him tell you that he’s not. Completely enthralled over here. His favorite is Fluttershy. This is the best day ever.” Stiles immediately forwards this text to everyone else in the pack. He hears muffled snickers from Lydia and Isaac, the two who happen to be in the same class as him at the moment.

Even so, the day can’t go by fast enough, and he’s glad that there’s no lacrosse practice on Friday so he doesn’t have to worry about skipping it. Lydia volunteers to stop and get Erica’s homework for her, so Stiles takes Isaac and Scott in the Jeep and jets home.

Erica’s sitting in his desk chair with her feet propped up on the desk. They’re still watching the My Little Pony show. Derek looks up with obvious relief at Stiles’ entrance. “Oh, thank God,” he says. “This has to violate the Geneva convention.”

“Mm hm,” Stiles says, looking at the TV and trying not to grin. “I hear your favorite is, uh, Shutterfly?”

“Fluttershy,” Derek corrects automatically. He sees Stiles smirk and scowls at him. “Shut up, asshole. You’d know her name too if some psycho had been forcing you to watch it all day.”

Erica blows him a kiss and bounces out of the chair. She slides an arm around Stiles’ waist, rubs her cheek against his, and says, “I’m gonna go find some better company now that you’re home.”

“Just a sec,” Stiles says, and gives her a tight hug. “Thanks. Derek?”

Derek gives him one of those laser-like stares, than a put-upon sigh. “Thanks, Erica.”

Erica grins at him. “Aww, Derek, I love you too,” she says, and then spins on her heel and leaves the room. Stiles just smiles after her fondly and shakes his head.

“C’mon,” he says to Derek. “You want to get up for a while?”

“Sweet Jesus yes,” Derek says. The IV had run dry almost an hour previous, but he doesn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects, so Stiles disconnects it and gets an arm underneath Derek’s shoulders, pulling him to his feet. He’s wobbly, but able to support most of his own weight. Stiles gets him down the stairs and settles him on the sofa. He coughs a few times but doesn’t seem as bothered by it as before. He pesters Stiles several times about shifting into wolf form, but Stiles keeps telling him not to because the catheter for IV is still in. He’s never spent so long in his human form at one go before, and it’s clearly driving him insane. Stiles feels bad for him, and they’re out of the IV bags anyway, so he calls Dr. Deaton to see if it’s okay to take the IV out. The call rolls over to voice mail, which irks him, but then again he supposes that he can’t expect Dr. Deaton to always be at his beck and call. He leaves a brief message.

Deaton calls back about ten minutes later and apologizes, saying he was in surgery. He listens to Stiles’ update on his condition and says that it should probably be fine to take the IV out, since he’s out of the IV fluids anyway. “I’ll try to stop by this evening to check on him,” he says, “but I’ve got a very heavy schedule so I don’t know what time it might be. There are some possibilities I want to look into.”

“What sort of possibilities?”

“Just a few tricks to see if there are any consolidations of magical energy in town anywhere,” Deaton says. “That might tell us if anyone’s doing any heavy casting.”

He obviously expects Stiles to know at least vaguely what he’s talking about, so Stiles says okay and thanks him and lets him get back to work. It turns almost into a normal afternoon. The pack is lying around the Stilinski’s living room, some of them playing games on their phones or reading or even doing homework (Allison and Boyd are both the sort of person who like to get their homework done on Friday so they don’t have to scramble to get it done Sunday). Derek is feeling well enough to actually be hungry, and Stiles knows that he’s going to have to eat a lot to replace all the calories that he’s burned, so he decides to make homemade pizza. Isaac and Lydia are dispatched to the grocery store for supplies while Stiles starts making the crust.

He comes back into the living room wearing his ‘baking is science for hungry people’ apron and with a smear of flour on his cheek to wait while the dough rises, to see that Derek is curled up in his wolf form on the sofa. “What happened to the IV?” he asks.

“I took it out,” Scott says. “We couldn’t handle the bitching. I can put it back in later; I know how.”

Stiles glares at Derek. He puts his ears back and whines. “You’re such a baby,” Stiles tells him, amused despite himself. He hopes that Derek will sleep better if he’s able to be in his shifted form. “Okay, but you’d better not complain when we need to put the IV back in, and when it’s time for the thermometer . . .”

Derek’s response to this is to shove his head underneath one of the pillows on the sofa. Stiles just laughs at him and joins Erica and Scott in the Mario Kart game they’re playing. Lydia and Isaac return with the groceries, and the fun task of figuring out exactly how many pizzas to make and which ones should have what ingredients commences. Stiles has it down to a science, but with fun problems like ‘Lydia wants a veggie pizza but won’t eat peppers, and Allison likes peppers but only if there’s also sausage, and Isaac hates sausage but loves pepperoni and peppers’, it feels like _this_ should be his math class.

“Derek, do not even try to come to the table in your fur,” Stiles shouts, as he slides the first two pizzas out of the oven and puts another two in to take their place. “I should take your temperature again before you eat anyway,” he adds, wanting to make sure that his fever isn’t getting worse now that he’s not getting the IV fluids. He hears the wolf growling in the other room and shifting as he gets to his feet.

A minute later, he hears coughing. He sighs as he goes searching for the pizza cutter. He’s just found it when Lydia says, “Stiles, will you come in here for a sec?”

“Sure.” Stiles sets the timer on the oven for the new pizzas and goes back in. Derek is sitting on the sofa in his human form, looking a little paler than before, still making muffled coughing noises. “What’s up?”

“I don’t want to be an alarmist, but,” Lydia says, and points to the wad of tissues that Derek is coughing into. It’s stained crimson. “That looks a lot like blood.”

Stiles swallows his panic and looks at Scott, who undoubtedly knows more about respiratory diseases than he does. His brain immediately starts trying to remember the symptoms of tuberculosis, which is the only disease he knows of off the top of his head that causes this, and he swats it down.

“He’s probably just coughed so much his throat is raw,” Scott says. “Better give him more of that kick-ass cough syrup.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “The pizzas just finished, so – ”

“I’ll take care of it,” Scott says, and trots off to grab it. Stiles goes back to what he was doing in the kitchen, covering the pizzas with foil so the first set will stay warm while the second set bakes. Once that’s done, he goes back in to check and see how he’s doing. Derek is still grimacing at the taste of the medicine, so Stiles hands him a glass of water.

“Come on, guys, come get some drinks and then we can eat as soon as the pizzas are done,” he says. Boyd helps Derek get to his feet. A minute later, he pitches forward, and Isaac has to grab his other side to keep him from falling. Both he and Boyd swear and start to lower Derek to the ground before he can fall. His body is shaking and twitching.

Erica shoves between the two boys. “Roll him on his side,” she snaps, and they jump to obey. “He’s having a seizure.”

“Are you – ” Allison begins, but then cuts the words off as Erica gives her a look.

“Give me that cushion,” Erica says, and Scott grabs it off the sofa, throwing it to her in an underhanded lob. She grabs it from the air and slides it underneath Derek’s head. “No, don’t hold him down,” she says, seeing Boyd move to do so as a particularly violent spasm shakes him. “Give him room. And don’t stare at him, for fuck’s sake,” she bites out, perhaps a little more viciously than is strictly necessary. All the others, except for Stiles, hastily study the ceiling or the floor.

The seizure lasts just over a minute, and it’s one of the longest minutes of Stiles’ life as he kneels there on the floor watching Derek shake, feeling utterly helpless. Erica glances at her watch twice, and lets out a slight sigh of relief when the spasms abruptly stop. Derek blinks, twice, slowly, and then slurs out, “Whym’I on th’ floor?”

Stiles tries to say something but nearly chokes. Erica’s the one who handles this question, saying in a smooth, calm voice, “You had a seizure, Derek, but you’re okay. It only lasted a minute.” She glances down and says, “And hey, you didn’t even piss yourself, so you’re absolutely doing better than me.”

“What . . .” Derek says, and trails off, confused.

Scott comes back in from the kitchen. “I left a message on Dr. Deaton’s cell phone,” he says. “And Lydia’s taking the pizzas out of the oven before we burn the house down.”

Stiles swallows hard. “The rest of you should eat,” he says, although he’s certainly lost his own appetite. They look at him like he’s insane. “Well, you should,” he says, but then redirects his attention to Derek. “How are you feeling?”

Derek still looks blurry and confused. “I hurt,” he says.

Erica barks out a short laugh. “Feels like you’ve been put in the washing machine on spin cycle, doesn’t it. You probably pulled every muscle in your body. Seizures are a bitch like that.”

Stiles presses a hand against the back of Derek’s neck. He still feels warm, but not hot like he was the night before. Not the kind of fever that might cause a seizure in and of itself. “Erica, you, you know all about seizures,” he says. “What might have caused this?”

“Dude, you can get seizures for _tons_ of reasons,” Erica says. “Really, you should see the differential diagnostic chart for seizures. You can get seizures from chemical imbalance, from strokes, head injuries, drug overdose, cardiac conditions – seriously, there’s a list longer than my arm. There’s no way I’m going to be able to explain this.”

Stiles forces himself to swallow all his useless questions – will it happen again? What should they do if it does? Should they call an ambulance? – because Erica won’t have answers. He focuses on Derek instead. The other man still looks confused and disoriented. Stiles smoothes his hair back and says, “You’re gonna be fine,” in what he sure as hell hopes is a reassuring tone. Derek’s eyes close and he sags against Stiles.

“It’s normal to be really sore and really tired afterwards,” Erica says. “So if he passes out, don’t freak. I almost always passed out for an hour or so after I had a seizure.”

“Okay.” Stiles takes a deep breath and wonders what’s taking Deaton so long to call him back. How long had it taken the vet to get back to him earlier? It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. He checks his watch and sees that it’s a little after six PM. Theoretically, he should be done with work for the day. He had said he had some things to ‘look into’. What did that mean? Would it keep him from getting to his phone?

Since Derek’s curled up on his side and doesn’t seem to notice or care whether Stiles is beside him, the teenager gets up and starts to pace. He feels tense and edgy. No matter what else happens, he’s sure that this is not a normal illness. Whether it’s a poison or a magical spell, he doesn’t know. He still can’t figure out why Derek would be the only one affected, and can’t fathom why someone would be targeting him specifically. Derek has led such a solitary life; he really has no enemies.

Stiles has plenty of enemies. He makes an inward resolution that if he finds out someone is making Derek suffer to get to him, he will track down that person and give them a new meaning of the word ‘regret’.

Minutes trickle by as he paces around the room. The others eat their pizza and converse quietly, anxiously. Stiles’ obvious agitation affects all of them. He’s watching Derek like a hawk, and every cough and twitch makes his heart leap into his throat.

After half an hour, he tries Dr. Deaton again and leaves another message. Since he’s guessing Scott’s was probably fairly calm and rational, he’s pretty sure that his comes off as hysterical. He tries to tone it down, but doesn’t do very well. Derek is sinking deeper into unconsciousness; it’s becoming difficult to rouse him. Stiles panics the first time he can’t get Derek to wake. Erica tries to reassure him, but it doesn’t work very well. He finally shakes Derek back into consciousness long enough for him to mumble something about being thirsty and then pass out again.

The other wolves try to convince Stiles that he just needs to sleep, but it’s more than that. Stiles knows it; he can _feel_ it. He can feel Derek slipping through his fingers in a way that’s entirely abstract but no less real.

“I can’t fucking wait any longer,” he says after another fifteen minutes have gone by. “Fuck. I’m going to go to the clinic and see if he’s there.”

“We’ll go with you,” three different pack members say, getting to their feet.

Stiles stops and forces himself to be rational. “Erica, Scott, I want you two to stay with Derek. You’re the best equipped to help him if something . . . happens.” He has to swallow hard before he can speak. Theoretically, a quick trip to the clinic shouldn’t be that dangerous, but someone out there is trying to hurt his pack, which means precautions need to be taken. He should split the group evenly. “Lydia, you stay here too,” he finally says. Who knows what esoteric knowledge she has in her head that might come in handy. “The rest of you can come with me.”

Isaac shoves the rest of his last slice of pizza in his mouth and Boyd grabs his shoes. Allison checks to make sure her crossbow is in working order, and Scott tosses Stiles his keys to the clinic, since the building will be locked. “Where’s your dad, anyway?” Allison asks, as the four of them pile into the Jeep.

“He had some paperwork to do,” Stiles says. “He said he was going to work late and probably be home around nine.” He peels out of the driveway and heads to the clinic. The Friday evening traffic is heavy, and he fumes at three different red lights, but they get there in about ten minutes. His phone has not rung, and he knows that Scott would have called him if anything had happened, or if he had heard from Dr. Deaton.

The clinic is locked up, as he had expected, so he uses Scott’s keys to let them. “Dr. Deaton?” he shouts as he goes inside. “Are you here? Anybody home?”

The clinic is silent. There isn’t even any barking from the back, so there are no dogs being boarded at the moment. Stiles stands in the middle of the office and says, “Fuck, where is he?”

A quick search of the building turns up nothing. There’s no cars in the parking lot. Stiles rubs both his hands over the back of his head. For the first time, he starts to worry about something other than Derek. He generally includes Dr. Deaton in the category of ‘people I do not ever have to worry about’, which is the same category that holds Chris Argent and, well, it pretty much begins and ends there. Out of all the people in Beacon Hills, Deaton is one that Stiles is confident can take care of himself. But now he’s missing in action. If he was ‘looking into things’, did he stumble on something that someone else hadn’t wanted him to find?

He calls Scott and says, “He’s not here. Do you know where he lives?”

“No,” Scott says. “Sorry. It’s never really come up, you know?”

“Yeah. How’s Derek?”

There’s a pause wherein Scott is obviously considering how much truth he wants to tell. Finally, he just says, “Worse. And going downhill fast.”

Stiles doesn’t ask for any details. He just says okay and then hangs up. It’s becoming obvious that he’s not going to be able to wait for Dr. Deaton to reappear. He’s going to have to deal with this himself. Now, or sooner if possible. “There’s got to be something here that can help,” he says, and marches over to Dr. Deaton’s office. He flips on the lights and starts digging through the room’s contents.

It’s a cluttered place, with an old-fashioned computer sitting on the desk and papers piled up in drifts both on the desk and a table that sits off to one side. There’s a file cabinet off to one side that’s full of patient charts, some of which are stacked on one of the chairs. Behind the desk is a bookshelf and another file cabinet, this one locked.

They start going through the books, some of which are medical reference books, others of which seem occult in nature, and some of which are seemingly random. There are books on psychology, on war, on anatomy, on drugs. There’s even a corner of some fiction. “Even if we found some spell that might help, we couldn’t do it,” Allison points out. “None of us are wizards or witches.”

Stiles grinds his teeth in frustration as he pries at the file cabinet. He gestures to Isaac and says, “Break that open for me.”

Isaac grabs the top drawer and gives it a sharp yank. There’s a loud noise as the lock snaps. Stiles nods in thanks and starts going through the contents. The first drawer holds nothing but papers, but the second is more promising. Jars of different powders or liquids, little talismans and charms. But he doesn’t know what any of them _do_. Staring down into the drawer, he feels despair start to creep up on him. There simply isn’t time to look all of it up.

He dials Scott again and puts him on speaker. “Just tell me if any of this stuff sounds remotely helpful,” he says, and starts reading labels. “White sage, astragali extractum, eleuthero root, bladderwrack, mountain ash – ”

“Wait,” three different voices say at once: Scott, Allison, and Lydia. “Mountain ash blocks supernatural energy,” Scott continues. “That’s what surrounds his clinic. It’s how he kept Peter from getting in that one time.”

“Yeah, my dad uses it too,” Allison says. “He says if you have the actual wood, you can build cages that will actually hold werewolves, but it’s super rare to be able to get that much of the right kind.”

There’s a medium-sized burlap sack of it. “We’ll try it,” Stiles says, and grabs the whole thing. There are two pendants that look like they might be healing charms, so he grabs those too, then slams the drawer shut. They leave the clinic and head back to the house, tires protesting at the speed at which he takes the turns.

Derek has definitely gone downhill, even though they can’t have been gone more than an hour. He’s pale and shaking, sweat beading on his bare skin. Looking down at him, Stiles is again reminded of the day he had been shot with wolfsbane. He almost wishes that the solution were as simple as cutting off Derek’s arm. He knows that he could do it without hesitation now, if it would save Derek’s life. It’s funny how much the year has changed him.

They move the furniture out of the living room, and he makes a little nest of blankets and cushions for Derek on the floor. Once the circle is made, none of them will be able to cross it, so he also puts down a gallon of water, the thermometer, the painkillers, the healing talismans, and what’s left of the pizza. Scott and Boyd get Derek lying down on the blankets. He mumbles vaguely but doesn’t really react to being moved.

“Okay,” Scott says, as Stiles takes the sack of mountain ash in one hand. “The key to this stuff is _belief_. You have to believe it’s going to work.”

“Got it,” Stiles says. That’s easy. It’s going to work because it _has_ to work. Because a world without Derek is something that he will not allow to exist. There are no alternatives.

The others back away, and he takes a handful of the powder out of the sack. It’s fine, slightly gritty, sliding through his fingers to hit the tile floor. He’s suddenly glad they don’t have carpets downstairs, which would inevitably just complicate matters. He walks in a slow circle around Derek, making the line with the sand, giving him enough room that he’ll be able to stand up and walk a few steps in either direction, presuming he’s able.

When the circle closes, he _feels_ it. The suddenly emergence of magical tension in the room. It’s a wall right in front of his face, between him and Derek. He doesn’t like the way it feels, putting pressure on their bond, cutting it off. But he can deal with it if he has to.

The room is quiet for a long minute before Erica finally bursts out with, “Well?!”

“Give it a few minutes, it’s not instantaneous,” Lydia says.

Stiles wants to argue that they may not _have_ a few minutes, but manages to bite his tongue. He’s just staring at Derek, at the way he’s curled up on the blankets in the center of the circle, shivering, every breath coming as such an obvious effort that it makes his chest ache.

Then a long breath sighs out of him, and Stiles can see his muscles relax. He can’t help it; he goes into instant panic mode, thinking that Derek is dying or dead. Boyd grabs him before he can break the circle, actually lifting him off his feet. “It’s okay, man, it’s okay,” he says, as Stiles struggles against his grip. Stiles calms down when he sees Derek roll over onto his back. Sees the way his chest is rising and falling, steadily now. “All right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says hoarsely, and Boyd sets him back on his feet. Derek lifts one hand and rubs it over his face. He tries to sit up but then slumps backwards.

“Jesus,” he slurs out. “I can barely move.”

“Derek?” Stiles says, his voice cracking a little. “You’re awake in there?”

“Yeah.” Derek rolls back onto his side and coughs hard, several times. “Christ,” he says, and holds several tissues to his mouth, hacking out unpleasant wads of phlegm. He shakes his head slightly and braces himself with one hand, this time pushing himself into a sitting position. “What the hell, the last thing I remember is shifting to human so I could have dinner.”

“Yeah, uh, you got worse,” Stiles says. “But you’re okay now? You feel better?”

“Yeah, I feel . . .” Derek’s gaze lands on the gallon of water. He grabs it and twists the top off, taking several long swallows. Then he pours some of it out onto one hand and rubs it over his face. When he shakes himself again, he looks a lot more alert. “Oh, Jesus, is that pizza?” he adds, and starts shoveling it into his mouth. “I’m freakin’ starved,” he adds, his mouth full.

Stiles gives a stifled little sob of relief, which he manages to swallow before anyone hears. Of course, it doesn’t matter, because Derek immediately zeroes in on him and says, “What are you crying about?”

“I’m not crying, jerk,” Stiles says, hastily rubbing his eyes. When Derek moves towards him, he snaps, “Stay inside the circle!”

Derek stops moving and seems to take stock of where he is. He frowns down at the circle of ash on the floor around him. “What the hell?” he asks. His confusion does not stop him from picking up another slice of pizza and setting in on it.

“Well, the question has been answered at this point,” Lydia said, sliding an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling him into a one-sided hug. “Whatever was making you sick was definitely some kind of magical influence from the outside. So as long as you’re inside the circle, you should be okay.”

“He can’t stay in there forever,” Isaac points out.

“No, but it at least buys us time to figure out what the fuck is going on,” Erica replies.

“What the fuck _is_ going on?” Derek asks.

The others give him a brief summary of what’s happened in the last few hours. He doesn’t remember much of anything after Stiles got home that afternoon. “So what now?” he asks, once the explanations are over.

“Dr. Deaton is the only person we know who knows anything about magic,” Scott says. “We have to find him.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You just know that Stiles is a fan of The Wire.

Stiles calls his father at work and has him look up Dr. Deaton’s home address so they can go see if he’s there. He asks about tracking the phone’s GPS, but when Sheriff Stilinski tries to look it up, it doesn’t come up. “Must be turned off,” he says.

“That would explain why he’s not answering my calls, at least,” Stiles says.

The house is on the edge of town, at least twenty minutes away. Scott takes Allison and Lydia and goes to see if he’s there. Not two minutes after they’ve left, Stilinski calls to tell Stiles that he asked around and found someone who had seen Dr. Deaton’s car parked downtown. Isaac and Boyd agree to go poke around the area it’s parked at and see if they can track him down.

Stiles wants to go with them, but after Derek’s recovery, he’s found himself sitting on the floor in the living room, almost dizzy with relief. He wants nothing more than to just curl up with Derek and sleep, but he can’t. Twice, Derek catches himself almost crossing the line of ash as he moves towards Stiles. Both times, he swears in frustration when he remembers that they’re on opposite sides.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, after the second time.

“You’re anything _but_ fine,” Derek retorts.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “I’m going to be fine,” he amends, putting his hand on the floor right next to the edge of the circle. Derek looks down at it, then puts his hand on the other side, so nothing is separating them except the thin line of ash. They just sit there for a moment, both of them leaning against the wall that the ash has created, being careful not to touch. Then Derek’s stomach lets out a low growl, and Stiles laughs. “I guess I should have put more food than that in there with you,” he says.

“I can wait,” Derek says, with a sigh. Stiles doesn’t like the look of him, regardless. Derek has always been fit, but now he looks thin, almost gaunt. He’s dropped a lot of weight in the past few days, and if he can’t eat, he can’t fuel the healing process that he doubtlessly needs.

The doorbell rings, and Erica shouts, “I’ll get it!” from where she’s sitting in the kitchen, giving Derek and Stiles their privacy. He hears her make a surprised noise a moment later, and jogs into the front hall to find Dr. Deaton, wearing a jacket in defense against the light rain that’s started.

“I came as soon as I got your messages,” Deaton says, for all the world oblivious to the fact that they’ve been looking for him. “How’s he doing?”

“Dude, where’ve you _been_?” Stiles blurts out, before he can remember that he’s talking to an adult.

Deaton doesn’t bat an eyelash. “I’m sorry to have taken so long. Like I said, I had some things to look into. I had to turn my phone off for a while.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Stiles shakes that off for the moment. They can figure it out later. “Yes, uhm, sorry. He’s doing much better. We put him in a circle of mountain ash when we couldn’t get a hold of you. I may have, uhm, broken into your office a little bit.”

This doesn’t seem to faze Deaton much, either. “Mountain ash was a good choice. It helped?”

“Yeah, a lot,” Stiles says, and waves for Deaton to follow him into the living room. Derek looks up as they come in and gives them both a nod. Stiles dispatches Erica to call the others and let them know to come home, and that they can stop worrying.

“You’re definitely looking much better,” Deaton says. He holds his hand out and presses it against the boundaries of the circle. His eyebrows go up. “That’s actually a very strong circle, Stiles. Did you make that?” At Stiles’ nod, he says, “You may have some talent for this kind of thing.”

“Well, that’s me,” Stiles says. “Just full of hidden talents. So it’s definitely magic, right? I mean, that’s making Derek sick?”

Deaton nods. “Absolutely. The circle proves that.”

Stiles wonders why they didn’t just do that in the first place, but manages to hold his tongue. For all he knows, the stuff costs a thousand dollars a gram; he didn’t exactly ask before barging into Deaton’s office. “Okay. So how do we fix it? We can’t leave him in the circle forever.”

There’s a long silence while Dr. Deaton paces around the circle, his face thoughtful. “My guess is that this is some kind of representational magic,” he finally says. “Or to use terminology you’d be familiar with: whoever’s doing this is using a voodoo doll.”

“Well, isn’t that . . . special,” Stiles says. “Where does that get us?”

“To have worked such a profound effect on him, he must have something with which he can key it to Derek,” Deaton says. “That means hair, or blood, or some similar thing.”

“Huh.” Stiles looks at Derek. “Noticed anyone taking samples lately?” he asks, and Derek scowls at him. He looks back at Dr. Deaton and says, “Well, when you went to scope things out, did you find anything?”

“There are several places in town that have a confluence of unnatural energy right now,” Deaton says, “but I think we can narrow it down. Simply put, this sorcerer is using a representation of Derek so accurate and powerful that it has become, in a way, a member of your pack in and of itself. Therefore, as the alpha, you should be able to find it.”

Stiles looks at him for a moment before realizing that his jaw is slightly ajar. He snaps it shut, rubs both hands over his hair, and says, “Well, I’ll get right on that.”

Deaton gives him a rather sympathetic smile. “You won’t be able to do it here. Not with the real thing standing right there. But if you’re away from him, you might find yourself surprised with what you can and cannot sense. Particularly because this doll, in an abstract way, is suffering. You’ll be able to feel its pain.”

“That is all super creepy,” Stiles says, “I don’t mind telling you.”

“I’d think you would be used to that by now,” Deaton says. They both turn slightly as the front door opens and shuts, and Scott comes in with Allison and Lydia in tow. Scott is obviously very relieved to see that Deaton is all right, and spends several minutes apologizing for having broken into his house to make sure that he wasn’t there, or if he was, that he was all right. Deaton takes this in stride. A few minutes later, Isaac and Boyd get back.

“Here’s what I think we should do,” Deaton says. “I’m going to give you a list of locations that are the most likely possibilities for someone working dark magic. Go check each of them out. Trust me – you’ll know it when you feel it.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says. Three pack members open their mouths, and his hands shoot up in surrender. “No, I’m not going to try to go alone. For fuck’s sake. I only do stupid shit when I _have_ to.” He looks at Dr. Deaton. “What about you?”

“There are some things I’ll need to prepare,” Deaton replies. “Once we have the doll, we’ll need to thoroughly cleanse it. Meet me back at the clinic – that’s where I keep my supplies.”

“You aren’t going to go with him?” Derek demands. “There’s some sorcerer on the loose and you’re going to do what, grind some herbs? It’s not like there’s a rush – ”

“Except there is,” Stiles says impatiently. “You haven’t eaten in days, Derek. And your body has been fighting to heal itself. There’s no mirror in here so you can’t see what you look like, but _trust_ me, half a pizza is not going to cut it. We need to get you out of that circle, stat.”

Derek grinds his teeth in frustration. “Can’t someone pass something to me? Allison’s not a supernatural creature. The barrier shouldn’t affect her.”

“No, but she is a member of the pack,” Stiles says. “I won’t risk it. I’m going to go get the damned voodoo doll, and Dr. Deaton will go do whatever sort of preparations he needs to, because let’s face it, you and I really have no idea what sort of preparations those might be.” He looks at Dr. Deaton and says, “I’ll meet you at the clinic.”

Dr. Deaton nods. He pulls out his phone and sends Stiles a list of four addresses, then picks up the bag which holds the remainder of the mountain ash. “Take this with you,” he says. “Warlocks don’t like coming into contact with it. It won’t hurt them, like wolfsbane would hurt a wolf, but it blocks their power.” With those words, he departs. Stiles looks around at his available resources. Over the months, the pack has fallen into a rhythm, and everyone’s place in it has been defined. Derek, of course, is his right-hand man. Scott is the medic. Isaac and Allison are the enforcers; Erica is his bodyguard. Lydia is the brains (and unlike Stiles himself, her brains include common sense), and Boyd is rapidly becoming the person that Stiles can count on to actually keep his head in tough situations.

Derek, trapped in the circle, will be no help whatsoever if something happens here. And if the circle gets broken somehow, he’ll need someone with medical skill to come to his aid. Stiles would prefer to leave Scott here, but he suspects that trying to split up Scott and Allison will just lead to trouble, and he wants Allison with him. Erica’s medical skills would probably be enough; if all else fails, she can call 911. So finally Stiles says, “Scott, Allison, Boyd. You’re with me. Isaac, Erica, Lydia, stay here with Derek.”

Everyone nods. Allison doesn’t need to stop to arm herself, because she did before leaving to look for Dr. Deaton, but Stiles does. He dons his chain mail and then his holster before putting on his leather jacket. He tucks away his .38 and decides against bringing his baseball bat. He’s not fighting a werewolf this time, so the silver won’t do any good.

He plugs the four addresses into his GPS and lets it determine the most efficient route. A minute later, they’re on the road, wrapped in tense silence. Their first stop is about ten minutes away, a house in a residential neighborhood. Stiles stops the car on the side of the road and just stares at it. He feels absolutely nothing, beyond the nebulous tension that all his wolves are emanating, and the muffled discomfort of having his bond with Derek stifled.

“Nothing,” he says, when Scott gives him a questioning look. “Hopefully that’s because there’s nothing here, not because I suck at this.”

The second address takes them downtown. They park near Beacon Hills lone ‘occult’ shop, a little joint called Amber Moon that sells mostly incense and bongs, although Stiles supposes that actual magic must take place there, if it pinged off Deaton’s radar. Again, he feels absolutely no connection with the place. “Next,” he says, with a sigh, already wondering what they’ll do if he gets to the end of the list and still hasn’t felt anything.

It’s a question that never needs to be answered. The next stop on their list is an extended-stay hotel. Stiles starts to feel uneasy almost two miles away. By the time he gets to the parking lot, he can feel his skin crawling. Something nags at the edge of his sense. It _hurts_ , like the psychic version of being forced to listen to nails being scraped over a blackboard. “This is it,” he says, his voice cracking on the third word.

All the others tense up. Stiles parks the car with a few jerky motions and gets out. He doesn’t need to look at the GPS or ask a clerk or anything. The pain of his wolf leads him on like a beacon. He walks around the side of the building and down a row of doors. It only takes a few moments to locate the correct one.

“Ready?” Stiles asks, and receives three serious nods. “Boyd, would you care to do the honors?” he asks, and Boyd nods, raises one foot, and gives the door a solid kick. The wood splinters and the hinges scream, and the door gives way. Allison goes in first, doing a quick sweep with her bow, ready to loose an arrow if anything moves. But the room seems to be empty.

It’s a suite, but a fairly small one, only two rooms and a tiny bathroom and tinier closet. The first room has a counter and sink along the wall, then a sofa and a television. The second room is the bedroom, with two double beds. Scott hits the light switch right by the door. The place is a cluttered mess; obviously the maids haven’t been around lately. Every surface is covered in books, papers, jars filled with unidentifiable liquids and powders, spools of thread, bundles of feathers, cardboard boxes of bones that have been bleached white.

“Jesus,” Scott says, staring around the room in horror. “This is like from some movie.”

“No shit,” Stiles says. He can’t help but feel a little bit of panic. If there’s a voodoo doll in here, they might never find it. He grits his teeth. They’ll be methodical about this. “Allison, cover our exit. Boyd, you start in the bedroom. Scott and I will start in here. I’m not sure exactly what we’re looking for, so bring up anything that looks . . .” ‘That looks weird’ would cover just about everything in the suite, so he says, “That looks like it might be connected to Derek somehow. Something wolf-shaped or person shaped.”

Both of the boys nod, and they all get to work, sifting through boxes and jars and stacks of random things. In places, the detritus is stacked six inches high or more. “How does he ever find anything?” Allison asks, with her back pressed against the wall right next to the door, keeping an eye on the walkway outside.

Tucked away in a corner beside the sofa, Stiles finds it. It’s a glass bowl, shaped like a fish bowl, and inside is a piece of dark wood carved into the shape of a wolf, about three inches long. He almost misses it, because the bowl is filled with a black, lumpy, viscous substance. It’s some sort of goo, which gives off a foul odor. Only the head of the carved wolf is fully visible; the rest is submerged in the muck. He doesn’t dare touch it, but as soon as he puts his hands on the bowl, he knows he’s found what’s hurting Derek.

“Got it,” he says, standing up, and the others all look over at him. He holds up the bowl and says, “Let’s get this thing back to Dr. Deaton.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Scott says, scrambling to his feet. Boyd follows, flipping the lights off in the bedroom and jogging over towards the door.

Stiles actually isn’t in as big a hurry to leave. Sure, the room is creepy, but it takes a lot to creep him out after Gerard Argent’s basement. Finding the voodoo doll is all well and good, but he wishes that they had found something that might give them some idea of who this guy is and why he’s after Derek. But he’s not about to stick around. There are more important things to be doing at the moment. On the upside, the guy has obviously made this into his home. If he’s lucky, they can get back before he realizes they were there, and take another look at the contents. He does stop long enough to carefully take several photographs of the room with his phone.

“Leaving so soon?” a voice says, and Stiles twists around to look at the door. But that’s not where the voice is coming from. Allison is still covering the door with her bow, and she looks just as startled. No, the voice is from the other side of the room. Stiles has no idea how the man got in, or if he was somehow there the entire time. And at the moment, it’s just a voice. A smooth, mellow baritone with just a hint of amusement in it. The owner of the voice is entirely in the shadow of the darkened bedroom. “But I’ve been waiting so eagerly for you.”

Stiles wants to reach for his gun, but the glass bowl and its contents are surprisingly heavy, and he doesn’t want to risk dropping it. So he trusts Allison to cover him. Without even looking, he knows her bow is already pointing right at the man. Instead, he cradles the bowl against his abdomen and slides his hand into his pocket, cupping a handful of the mountain ash in a loose fist, holding it ready. From the growls behind him, he can tell that Scott and Boyd have already shifted into their partial forms. They’re between him and the door to the outside. The sorcerer isn’t blocking their escape, at least, not physically. “Nice to meet you too, asshole,” he says. “You want to tell me why you have a problem with Derek Hale?”

“Is that who it was?” He sounds amused. “I couldn’t be sure. I just picked a clump of fur off a tree after the last full moon.” He laughs, a rich, full sound. “For all I knew, I was cursing some hapless forest animal . . . although I doubted it.”

“So you didn’t even know which one of us you were targeting?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

“What did it matter?” the man replies, with a shrug. “As long as I had somebody in the pack, sooner or later, the alpha would come out to play.” He gives Stiles a grin. “You should hear what they say about you. The things they call you. The human alpha. The boy in red. The nameless one. Rumor of you has spread far and wide through the supernatural community. The one who killed Peter Hale and then claimed the last surviving member of his family as his mate. The one who staged a coup in the alpha pack to avoid his failing grade in the trial. The boy who murdered Gerard Argent with the law.”

“Hey, uh, news flash, asshole,” Stiles says. “I didn’t kill Gerard Argent with anything.”

“Did you not? He is dead, you know,” the man says. Stiles blinks at him. He risks a quick glance at Allison, who returns his look with a bewildered one of her own. “Those are just rumors, of course. But one cannot deny that every power who has trespassed on your territory has ended up dead or in jail. That is simple fact.”

“So let me get this straight,” Stiles says. “You looked at my reputation and said to yourself, ‘wow, that kid is a prime asskicker, I’d like to go get my ass kicked by him’?”

“How would I see your abilities in battle if I did not challenge you to a fight?”

“So you’re just doing this for fun?” Stiles asks. “This is how you get your rocks off?”

“You make it sound so vulgar,” the man protests. “In a way, this is my calling. To match wits with others. To play a game that’s _real_ , where the stakes are high. It’s so rare that I find an opponent that can truly challenge me. I’m hoping I’ve found one here.”

“Okay, then, let’s get one thing straight,” Stiles says. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes, and there will be no Reihenbach-ing off buildings or waterfalls or whatever. You want me to take you down? That’s a service I’d be happy to provide. But there’s a saying that you might have heard before that applies here: you come at the alpha, you best not miss.”

“Very poetic.”

“Yeah, I watch a lot of television,” Stiles says. “So let me tell you what’s going to happen here. You think this is a game? All right. Let’s play. Right now, I have your king in check – that would be you, by the way. I’m going to take this little voodoo doll with me so I can fix up my lupa. You’re going to let me do that, or else Allison’s going to put an arrow in your eye.”

“Why would I let her do that?” he counters. “Are you forgetting that I’m a warlock?”

“No,” Stiles says, “but I also have this.” He holds out his hand to display the mountain ash. “I hear it blocks supernatural energy. So if you try anything, I’ll throw a handful of it in your face.”

“Mountain ash,” the man says, nodding. “I see you’re a fan of the classics. Is that how you think it works?”

“Let’s find out,” Stiles says, and throws the handful he’s been holding out in a wide arc. The man moves so quickly that Stiles can barely track it, but all of a sudden in the far corner of the room. He lets out a slight hiss as a drifting bit of ash settles on the skin of his arm. “I guess it does work like that after all.”

“You know, you are just as I imagined you,” the warlock says. “I concede this round to you. Take the doll. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

“Sure, asshole,” Stiles says. “But you might not like what you see.”

He gives a quick gesture with his hand. Scott and Boyd start to back out of the room. Allison waits until the others are out, still covering them, until she ducks out at the last second. The four of them take off running towards the Jeep. Stiles realizes that he’s shaking, and hurriedly passes the bowl off to Scott. “Guard that thing with your freakin’ life,” he says, and tosses the keys to Boyd. “You drive.”

They pile into the car, and Boyd takes off towards the clinic. Stiles fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials his father’s cell. He picks up on the second ring. “Hey, it’s me,” Stiles says. “I need a favor.”

“Oh boy,” Sheriff Stilinski says.

“I need you to go check out room 115 at Extended Stay America. I’m, uh, reporting a disturbance. I don’t know if anyone or anything will be there. Don’t try to catch the guy if he’s there. He’s dangerous. But I want his stuff if I can get it. And get his information from the clerk. Car, credit card – ”

“I know how to do my job, Stiles,” Stilinski says.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

His father says he’ll keep him posted, and hangs up. Stiles literally hangs onto the edge of the seat until they get to the clinic. Scott is still carefully cradling the bowl against his chest as they get out and head into the clinic. Deaton is waiting for them inside. “This way,” he says, and gestures for them to follow him to a storage room in the back. A trap door is open, revealing a narrow staircase. Stiles swallows and heads down it.

The basement room has a lot of the same things that the hotel room did, but it’s all neat and clean and organized. There are the same type of jars and boxes of magical accoutrements, but they’re somehow less intimidating when stacked and labeled. There’s a workbench against one end of the room, but the floor is mostly bare, made of slate, with a copper circle with a six foot diameter inlaid into it. There are no windows, and Stiles feels the claustrophobia seize him instantly. He forces it down with ruthless resolve, because there’s work to be done.

“Let’s see it,” Deaton says, and Scott holds out the bowl. Deaton lets him continue to hold it, but approaches cautiously. He puts on a pair of rubber gloves, and reaches down to touch the viscous fluid inside. It clings to one his finger as he pulls it away. A strange expression, a mixture of surprise and consternation, crosses over his face.

“What, what is it?” Stiles demands.

“I haven’t seen something like that . . . for a long time,” Deaton finally says.

“Do you recognize it?” Allison asks.

“Not specifically,” Deaton says, so quickly that Stiles gets the definite impression that he’s lying. “But the cure will be the same, regardless. We need to clean that off, then purify the doll. There’s a sink over there.”

Stiles accepts the pair of rubber gloves that Deaton hands to him, and reaches down into the bowl to fish out the wooden wolf. The goo clings to it, and the odor makes him gag. It’s a good thing he hasn’t eaten. It smells like rotted fruit, like a decaying body. It reminds Stiles of what the inside of Peter’s trunk had smelled like. He grits his teeth and presses back panic, turning the water on.

The gunk is stickier than it should be. Hot water doesn’t make it come off. He starts scrubbing at the doll, being careful not to damage it. It occurs to him, suddenly, that this could be quite uncomfortable for Derek, if what’s happening to the doll is affecting him. “Someone call home and make sure Derek’s okay,” he says.

“He should be fine as long as he’s still in the circle,” Deaton says.

Scott gives the veterinarian a somewhat apologetic look before pulling out his phone and dialing Lydia. She picks up a moment later. “How are things?”

“Good,” Scott says. “Fine. We’ve got the doll and we’re cleaning it up. Stiles wanted to check on Derek.”

“Yeah, he’s still fine,” Lydia says, “except for the fact that we can hear his stomach growling all the way down the street.”

“Don’t worry,” Scott says. “He’ll be out of that circle soon enough.”

“Way to jinx us, genius,” Stiles says, scrubbing harder as Scott hangs up his phone. Scott grimaces, but before he can say anything else, Stiles’ phone rings. The ringtone is the theme to Hawaii 5-O. “Shit, that’s my dad,” Stiles says, and looks at his hands, which are wet and covered in black slime. “Someone grab my phone.”

Allison takes his phone out of his back pocket and taps the screen. “Hi, Papa Stilinski . . . no, he’s okay, it’s just that his hands are messy.” There’s a long pause, peppered by an occasional ‘uh huh’ or ‘okay’. Finally, she says, “I’ll let him know. Hopefully we’ll be back at the house before too long. If you’re heading home soon, do you think you could pick up some food . . .? Okay. Thank you.”

Stiles grumps as she hangs up the phone. “He’s going to get fried chicken. Just see if he doesn’t. What’s the news?”

“The hotel room was empty. And not just ‘the guy wasn’t there’ but _empty_ empty. No stuff at all. He says it looked like nobody had even been staying there. He knows he had the right room because the door was still broken.”

Stiles lets out a sigh. “Great.”

“It gets worse,” Allison says. “The room was paid for in cash under the name of David Copperfield. No vehicle registered.”

“Wouldn’t they have at least asked to see ID?” Scott asks.

“Normally, yes, but there wasn’t one on file,” Allison says. “The hotel clerk didn’t know why not.”

“Shit.” Stiles’ forehead wrinkles as he takes all this in, still scrubbing away at the doll. “This guy knows my MO. He knew I would look for that information and made sure I wouldn’t be able to track him. That’s fucking scary.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you have connections within the police department, though,” Boyd says. “I mean, after getting people arrested repeatedly.”

“True enough,” Stiles says. That reminds him of something that the sorcerer said. He blinks over at Allison and says, “Did you hear anything about Gerard being dead?”

“No,” she says. “Dad hasn’t said anything about him since the day he was sentenced. I mean, not that he would necessarily tell me if something had happened to him, but he would be notified if anything did. He’s Gerard’s next-of-kin. You want me to call him?”

“Later,” Stiles says. He has enough to deal with right now. Gerard being dead doesn’t really make much of an emotional impact on him, regardless of whether or not it should. “Jesus, this stuff just won’t come off.”

It takes almost forty-five minutes of scrubbing before Deaton finally proclaims the doll clean enough physically to purify it magically. He has Stiles set it down in the center of the copper circle, then he kneels down on the outside, putting the tips of his fingers against it. Instantly, Stiles feels another whoosh of magical tension. The agony from the doll, which has slowly been decreasing as they cleaned it off, is suddenly gone.

“This is a basic spell,” Deaton says, “just to negate magic that’s already been done. Return an object or person to its baseline state of being, and in the case of an object that’s being used magically, render it powerless.” He closes his eyes and exhales slowly, then begins to speak in another language, slowly and deliberately. Stiles tugs out his phone and quietly turns the recorder on. It’s the same phrase spoken seven times, so he doesn’t really miss anything.

Once he’s done, Deaton takes his hands off the floor. The tension flares out and then dissipates. He picks up the wolf and hands it to Stiles. “And now it’s just a piece of wood.”

“Nifty,” Stiles says. He sees a crease down the side and gives it a twist. The piece of wood gaps open to reveal a small tuft of dark gray fur. “What do we do with it?” he asks, taking the fur out.

“I would suggest burning the fur,” Deaton says. “It doesn’t really matter what you do with the doll itself. Without the fur, it’s useless.”

“And you’re sure that won’t hurt him?” Stiles asks.

Deaton smiles slightly and nods. “Yes, positive. There’s no magical energy imbued in it anymore.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, but he tucks the fur back in the doll and then the doll back in his pocket, so he can wait until he’s home to burn it, just in case. He lets out a breath. “About what you said earlier – can anyone do magic? I mean, you said I might have a talent for it.”

“Yes and no,” Deaton says. “Anyone can do magic in the same way that anyone can sing. Only one in a million people is actually so tone deaf that they can’t manage to give a chorus of happy birthday. But only one in a million people actually has the innate talent to be Pavarotti.”

“So if you’re Pavarotti, does that make me Justin Bieber, or what?” Stiles asks.

Deaton laughs. “You can probably give yourself a little more credit than that. At least be a Backstreet Boy or some such. But like any skill, natural talent alone isn’t enough. It takes practice, dedication. They say it takes ten thousand hours to master a craft, and magic is no different. But if you’d like lessons, just let me know.”

“Maybe when things have calmed down a little,” Stiles says. He thanks Deaton again, and they turn to go. As soon as they get to the Jeep, he realizes how tired he is. Boyd drives again, and Stiles almost dozes off in the front seat. They get home about fifteen minutes later, and Stiles glances at his watch to see that it’s just after nine o’clock. It amazes him that it’s still Friday. The evening has felt longer than a week.

Everything inside is quiet. Erica has, of course, put on more episodes of the My Little Pony show, since Derek can still watch television from inside the circle. He has a long-suffering look on his face, and looks up as Stiles comes in. “Thank God,” he says, and Erica rolls her eyes at him.

Stiles takes a breath. “Here goes,” he says, reaches out a hand, and sweeps it through the ash. Everyone’s gaze snaps to Derek. Nothing happens. No coughing. No seizures. Not even a sniffle. All the tension melts out of Stiles and he half-collapses forward, onto Derek’s lap. Derek just lets him, takes his weight, and sags backwards so he’s sprawled out on the floor with Stiles on top of him, both arms wrapped around the teenager. They just lie there like that for a long minute, letting Scott sum up what happened at the hotel and the clinic for those who weren’t present.

Just as he’s finishing, the door opens and Sheriff Stilinski comes inside, toting an enormous bag with the Popeye’s logo on it. “I _knew_ you’d get fried chicken!” Stiles shouts at him. “You don’t appreciate everything I do for your arteries!”

Nobody pays him any heed whatsoever, setting on the food like, well, wolves. Derek in particular starts ripping chicken off the bone with ferocity that would have been disconcerting if they hadn’t all been so busy with their own meals. Sheriff Stilinski just smiles and allows Stiles to peel the skin off his chicken before letting him eat it. Stiles is sure that he already ate plenty of it on the way home, but decides against saying anything about it.

“So what now?” Erica asks, when everyone is done eating, except Derek, who looks like he might keep going for a while.

“Right now, nothing,” Stiles says. “He left us absolutely no trail to follow.” Except one possibility – that Dr. Deaton knows something. He recognized the spell; Stiles is sure of that. But he doesn’t want to talk about that in front of the others. And whether or not Dr. Deaton is hiding something, he _did_ just help them save Derek’s life. Stiles can’t look down on that. “I’m too wiped to think about it for now. Let’s just put on a movie and try to get some sleep.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter seems bipolar to me. It's like real-life mundane stuff until suddenly.... it isn't. XD 
> 
> Oh hey look, it's Danny and Jackson! Making their first real appearances in this 'verse, with dialogue and everything! Plus I made up a bunch of stuff about Deaton, since we really don't know anything about him.

The next day is Saturday, and they sleep in. Derek wakes up hungry, and actually wakes up Stiles up by whining about breakfast. Stiles crawls out of bed, into some clothes, and down to the kitchen. He can count the number of times that Derek has actually woken him while he was sleeping on one hand. This has to be some serious hunger.

So he makes a gigantic batch of what he has long ago titled ‘eggs a la leftovers’, in which he just uses up anything that’s in the fridge. It’s like the minestrone of the breakfast world. Two eggs per person, plus two extra for Derek in his current state, is twenty eggs. Cooking for eight (nine including his father) can get extremely expensive; Derek long ago started paying for a lot of the groceries and Stiles was hard-pressed to argue. He uses the biggest pan he has and adds in what’s left of the peppers and onions from the night before, a bag of shredded cheese, the end of some ham from the deli, and some broccoli that looks like it’s on its last legs. A quick search of the freezer reveals a bag of tater tots, so he throws them in the oven to give the meal some much needed carbohydrates.

By the time the food is finished and the coffee maker has produced enough coffee for everyone, the others are stirring. Everyone takes a plate and finds a place to sit: on the counter, at the table, on the floor.

“So what’s on the schedule for today?” Lydia asks.

“First things first: does anyone have any obligations to attend to?” Stiles asks.

Boyd half-raises his hand and says, “Lakeisha’s got a dance recital at one.”

“Mom’s threatened to ground me if I don’t clean out the gutters like she told me to do three weeks ago,” Scott says glumly. “And once I’m home, she’ll find eight other chores for me to do.”

“Like find the floor in your room?” Allison asks, grinning at him. He makes a face at her.

“Okey dokey,” Stiles says, running all of this through his head, making calculations.

Scott sees what he’s thinking and groans. “Oh, geez. This is gonna be like when the alpha pack was in town, and nobody was allowed to go off on their own, isn’t it.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “At least for the weekend. At school it’s a little less feasible. Isaac, how do you feel about helping Scott clean his gutters?”

Isaac shrugs. Menial work like that doesn’t bother him. “Sure. Do I get paid?”

“Take that up with him,” Stiles says. “Personally, I really don’t care if you help him, or just sit on your ass and watch him work. Erica, Lydia, you’re with Boyd. If Lakeisha is as adorable as usual, get video. Allison, Derek, you’re with me. Got an errand or two I want to run.”

Since asking Stiles what these ‘errands’ are never gets them anywhere – all he’ll ever say is ‘it might not pan out’ in situations like this – nobody bothers. Instead, Boyd says, “Here’s my question. Maybe I’m just missing something because I’m new to the pack, but what’s with ‘the boy in red’? The other nicknames kinda make sense, but I don’t get that one.”

“It’s probably ‘cause of the picture Derek did of me in the red hoodie,” Stiles says. “You know, the red riding hood vibes.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Boyd says, “but who outside the pack has actually _seen_ that painting?”

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. “I’m thinking we can blame this on Justin,” he says. “I sent him a photo of it after it was finished so he could see how badass Derek had made me look.” He waves this aside and adds, “You guys must’ve noticed that nobody’s sniffed around at our territory since the alpha trial, right? That’s basically because Justin has been spreading rumors about us in general and me in particular and our awesomeness. I told him to cut it out, but . . . even if he would, it’s too late now. I should kick his ass for getting me into this, but to be fair rumors were probably starting to spread regardless. Anyway, that must be where ‘the boy in red’ came from.”

“We should kick his ass just on general principle,” Derek mutters, and Stiles just laughs at him.

They finish their breakfast, and then everyone takes their turn in the shower and gets dressed. By then, Sheriff Stilinski is up, eating the last of the eggs. Stiles pulls him aside and asks quietly if he can see if there’s any information to be had on Dr. Deaton. Stilinski rubs a hand over his face and says, “Dare I ask why?”

“I think he has some connection to this guy,” Stiles says. “I may be able to find him using it.” He sees the skeptical look on his father’s face and says, “I’m not asking you to pull his financials or read his e-mail. Just get me anything that’s public record. Okay?”

“Sure,” Stilinski says. “In exchange for curly fries.”

“Is this our relationship now?” Stiles asks. “I ask you nicely to do me favors, and you insist that I pay you back in artery-clogging fast food?”

Stilinski thinks about it. Then he says, “I’ll settle for no more of that damned turkey bacon.”

“Deal.”

Stiles pulls on his shoes and goes out to the Jeep with Allison and Derek. “So where are we going?” Allison asks.

“Your place,” Stiles says. “I want to have a chat with your dad about Gerard.”

“Oh, boy,” Allison says. Derek’s jaw sets in an unhappy expression, but he doesn’t argue. He knows that Stiles views Chris as an ally, but he’s never been able to do the same. Stiles can’t really blame him for that, and generally settles for a lack of open hostility when the two of them are around each other. He drives over to Allison’s house and considers asking Derek to stay in the car, but decides he doesn’t want to leave him alone.

“Mom, Dad?” Allison calls out, shrugging out of her jacket. “I’m home!”

“Hi, honey,” Victoria calls from upstairs. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” Allison says. In the interest of not ruffling any feathers, she adds, “Stiles and Derek are with me.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Victoria responds, “Your father’s out back.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Allison gestures for the two of them to follow her out the back door and into the yard. Chris Argent is wearing a T-shirt, denim shorts, and heavy gloves while he prunes the hedges in the back. His face breaks into a smile when he sees Allison, and it disappears almost instantly when he sees who’s behind her. She walks over and gives him a hug anyway, which he returns. Then he gives Stiles a nod of grudging respect.

“I have to ask you something,” Stiles says, without preamble. “Yesterday, a man told me that Gerard is dead.”

A brief expression of unhappiness flashes across Chris’ face. “Yes, that’s true.”

Stiles considers this for a minute. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I have told you that?” Chris replies.

The words are a direct echo of when he had complained that Stiles hadn’t told him about the new pack members. Stiles winces slightly and says, “I guess I deserved that.”

Chris puts the pruners down. “I might have told you, if you had attended his sentencing. You didn’t. So I assumed that what became of him in the long-term was not of interest to you.”

Stiles sighs. “You know, I had a chemistry test that day, with a teacher who is the _opposite_ of lenient. But never mind. Will you tell me how he died?”

“My father had terminal cancer,” Chris says. “And before you ask, no, I did not know. I didn’t know about it until the sentencing. His lawyers brought it up in an attempt to plead for clemency. He received none. The judge and jury were both aware that his sentence was a life sentence. He was given three months to live. That was eight months ago.” He gives a little shrug and says, “He died this past summer.”

Stiles really isn’t sure how he feels about this. On the one hand, there was obviously no love lost between him and Gerard. On the other, it’s difficult to hear that he was the cause of the man spending his last months in prison. “Would it be appropriate to express condolences?”

“Do what you want,” Chris says. “That’s what you usually do.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, his tone almost formal.

Chris regards him for a minute. “Since we’re on the topic, you should probably also know that the cancer was the real reason he was keeping Peter alive. He thought if he tortured him long enough, Peter would eventually agree to turn him, and the lycanthropy would cure the cancer. But Peter continued to refuse.”

“Of course he did,” Stiles says quietly. “Peter was a lot of things, but . . .” He rubs both hands over his face. “And that’s why Peter let me kill him. Because he knew that he would eventually break. Everyone eventually breaks. He decided he would rather die on his own terms than live on Gerard’s.” _Now_ he feels tears sting at his eyes, and isn’t that a bitch? That he still feels more sorrow over having killed Peter than putting Gerard in jail. “Thank you for telling me that.”

Chris nods and turns back to his yard work. “Who was it that told you?”

“A sorcerer I met yesterday,” Stiles says. “Apparently, I have quite the growing reputation. And part of it is that I murdered Gerard Argent with the law.”

Chris shakes his head a little. “My father’s death had nothing to do with you.” He snips off a branch with a sharp movement. “Who is this sorcerer in town, and what is he up to?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “So far, his goal seems to be making me miserable. He wants to play Moriarty to my Holmes. My guess is that this won’t stay small, but I really don’t know much about him yet.” He hesitates, then says, “I’ll keep you posted.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Stiles says goodbye. Allison gives her father another hug, and then they’re off. They run some basic errands – he needs groceries, and Derek wants to grab some things from his studio since he might not be there for a while – and then head back to the Stilinski house. His father is waiting for him with several folders. “Got some work to do,” Stiles says absently, and settles down in his room with the information.

Dr. Alan Deaton has led an interesting life. He was born in Chicago about forty years previous. There’s no father listed on the birth certificate. His mother died when he was three of a drug overdose – intentional or accidental, nobody knows – and he went into foster care. He bounced from home to home until he was sixteen. His juvenile file is sealed, so there’s no way of finding out what he did when he was younger, but it was enough to get him a record.

At sixteen, he landed in his last foster home, and turned his life around. He was staying with two veterinarians who took in hard-luck abandoned pets the same way they took in hard-luck abandoned children. Deaton discovered a passionate love for animals and started volunteering at their clinic. He started attending high school regularly and brought his grades up. He completed two years at a local community college to get his general education requirements out of the way with a perfect 4.0 GPA before transferring to the University of Chicago and beginning his training as a veterinarian.

It’s a fascinating story that leads Stiles to view Deaton in an entirely new light, but doesn’t really tell him anything about the situation at hand. If there’s magic anywhere in Deaton’s early life, it’s not obvious from the records. As for his later life, hardly any records exist. There’s his graduation from veterinary school, and then the opening of his clinic, and that’s it. No marriage, no children, no scrapes with the law. He hasn’t even had a parking ticket.

“Jesus, this is useless,” Stiles says, pushing the stacks of paper aside. He’s beginning to think that maybe he just saw something that wasn’t there. Maybe Deaton really was just surprised at how vicious the spell directed at Derek was. If he was lying when he said he didn’t recognize it, neither of the wolves in the room had detected that lie.

On a hunch, though, he pulls out his phone. He studies it for a minute, and then pulls up Justin, the leader of the alpha pack, in his phone book. They’ve texted back and forth over the summer, usually about inconsequential things like sports or movies. Stiles is starting to think of him as a friend. He taps out a quick message. ‘Do you know the name Alan Deaton?’

It’s almost twenty minutes before Justin responds. ‘Yeah. Bad-ass witch-doctor. Why?’

‘I’m trying to decide if I can trust him.’

‘Sorry, can’t help you there. I don’t know much about him.’

Stiles sighs, thanks Justin, and tucks the phone away. He puts the files away in his cabinet and goes downstairs, where Allison and Derek are playing cards at the kitchen table. “Okay,” he says, and sets down his laptop. He downloads the photographs of the sorcerer’s hotel room from his phone and starts scouring them for detail. He Googles the name of every book he can make out. One never knows what’s going to come in handy.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

They hang out over the weekend, playing lacrosse and going skating, watching movies and playing video games. Saturday night is spent at Derek’s apartment, which he’s very happy to get back to. Sunday night, the girls stay at Erica’s and the boys sleep over at Boyd’s house. Boyd has four younger siblings, two boys and two girls, so staying there is always a fun experience.

School on Monday passes without incident. Derek is still feeling fine, without so much of a twinge. Nothing exciting happens. Tuesday is the same way. The ‘nobody goes out alone’ rule is still in effect, and all of them are infused with a sense of waiting. It drives Stiles mad. He’s never been good at waiting. But right now, the ball is in his opponent’s court.

Things get exciting again on Wednesday, but it has nothing to do with sorcerers or magic or werewolves. It’s just high school being high school, which means, of course, drama. Lydia comes to lunch flustered and angry. Upon some gentle pressure, she says that the girls in the locker room were all gossiping about how Jackson’s new girlfriend said he was _amazing_ in the sack. Stiles rolls his eyes and wonders why anybody would ever want to sleep with him. He’s smart enough not to ask. Lydia and Jackson might not have had the healthiest relationship, but he knows that Lydia was honestly hurt when Jackson dumped her so suddenly. He tries not to tread all over her feelings.

Of course, it doesn’t help that the girl, who has the unlikely name of ‘Autumn Rayne’, shows up at lacrosse practice. She spends most of the time coyly cheering Jackson on, and at least at one point suggests something that sounds _extremely_ dirty to Stiles. Jackson is back to smirking and being a jerk.

Coach Finstock has indeed been impressed by Stiles’ growing skill, but still names Jackson and Scott the team captains. When Stiles challenges him on this, saying that he’s a better player than Jackson, Finstock says (not unreasonably) that the team is used to Jackson, and changing things would only cause strife. He says Stiles can be a ‘sub-captain’, whatever that means. Stiles knows that Finstock has a point, and that if he put Stiles over Jackson, Jackson might actually quit the team and they’d lose a valuable player, but it still irks him.

So during the mid-practice break, while Jackson is sitting on the bleachers making out with Autumn – and not in the ‘kissing’ sense, but in the ‘his hand is actually underneath her shirt’ sense – Lydia looks at Stiles and says, “You wanna make out?”

Stiles arches his eyebrows at her. A year ago, he probably would have passed out to hear those words from her, even knowing that it wasn’t because she wanted him specifically. He’s older and wiser now. “Is this about Jackson?”

“Yup,” she says.

“Okay,” he says, “but not here. Not now.”

Lydia sees that speculative gleam in Stiles’ eye, and knows that he’s working out a plan for maximum Jackson embarrassment, so she agrees. For one thing, Jackson’s not going to notice if they do anything now, not while he’s on second base with Autumn. So the next day, Stiles casually bumps into her as she’s picking up her lunch in the school cafeteria, which results in her orange juice going all over her shirt. He apologizes profusely, to which she is a horrific bitch, and she leaves to change shirts.

So Jackson is just sitting with Danny and some of his other jock friends when Lydia climbs into Stiles’ lap and starts kissing him. Stiles is not exactly an experienced kisser, so they practiced the night before to make sure that he looked like he knew what he was doing. (Allison was the judge.) This garners several whistles from across the cafeteria, and of course, by the end of the day, rumors are running rampant. Among them is that Stiles is by _far_ the best lay Lydia’s ever had, and since everybody in school knows she’s slept with Jackson, the implications are obvious. Erica has been happily, loudly confirming these rumors; despite the fact that she has never had sex with Stiles, everyone in school already believes that she has.

All this going on while Stiles waits for the other shoe to drop from some crazy sorcerer makes him feel like he has some sort of double life. It’s distracting, and annoys him.

After school on Friday, when they’re getting themselves sorted out in the parking lot, Danny jogs and catches up with them. “Hey,” he says to Lydia. “Can we talk for a sec?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling brightly at him. “Talk.”

Danny shifts a little, and the rest of the pack withdraws to give them a safe distance. Not that this matters; even Stiles can hear every word of their conversation. “Look,” he says, “I know that Jackson was a complete jerk to you. But, you know, he’s still kind of not over you.”

“Oh, really?” Lydia asks. “What gave you that impression? The part where he dumped me with absolutely no warning? The part where he said he was cutting out the dead weight from his life? The part where he’s groping some ditz on the lacrosse field? Really, Danny, I’m interested to know exactly where you’re drawing that conclusion.”

Danny sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I know. I just thought you should know . . . you’re hurting his feelings.”

“Good,” Lydia says. “That was the point.” She turns on her heel and marches over to Stiles, looping an arm around his waist.

“And don’t even think I’m buying the two of you as a couple,” Danny calls over to them. Lydia sticks her tongue out.

After the second week like this, Stiles sits down and has a serious talk with his father and Derek. He decides to call off the ‘nobody is allowed to go out alone’ credo. It’s obvious that the sorcerer, whoever he is, is patient. He’ll wait until he gets an opportunity to his liking. And if splitting up will cause him to make a move, at least _something_ will happen. Stiles is sick of waiting. He wants the ball back in his court and to have something to _do_.

In any case, keeping the pack together with “no alone time”, as Scott puts it, is driving all of them crazy. They’re all kind of sick of watching Boyd make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for his siblings, or listening to Derek whine about wanting to go to his studio but not wanting anyone to come with him because he doesn’t like people seeing his unfinished work. Allison’s parents are bitching about how she’s barely slept at home in two weeks, and Allison bitches right back that if they wouldn’t be such assholes about Lydia or Erica sleeping over, she wouldn’t have to avoid them. Erica hasn’t gone so long without getting laid since her first full moon, and she’s so horny that it’s driving everyone else crazy. Soon she’s just going to attack Stiles, and as much as he might enjoy that, it’s probably a bad idea. Derek has come to terms with the fact that Stiles might, someday, have sex with somebody, without it meaning that he’s any less committed to his relationship with Derek. But he’s definitely not ready to have it rubbed under his nose.

So on Friday afternoon he tells everyone that they’re free for the weekend, have a good time, call him if anything happens. The pack scatters as if he had dropped a bomb. Even Derek gives him a quick hair rub and then takes off in his fancy sports car. Stiles lets out a slight sigh of relief and goes home to find something to do.

In the meantime, he’s looking through the books that their sorcerous friend had had in his hotel room. Some of them are rare, out of print, or not available in the country. Cross-referencing has led him to some possible leads through which he could track the man down, but so far he doesn’t have anything solid.

Those he _has_ been able to get a hold of are at least teaching him a lot of interesting things about magic. It’s a fascinating subject, wrought with mythology and colliding belief systems. Magic that works perfectly for one person may not work at all for the next. Everyone has their own totems or objects of power. Magic is very _personal_ , in a way that Stiles had not at all suspected.

Stiles has realized that the term ‘witch doctor’ is not all that inaccurate when it comes to Dr. Deaton. He seems to be more of a shaman than anything else. Knowing some of the terminology helps, too. He understands why Deaton called their adversary a ‘warlock’; that’s the term commonly used for a sorcerer who uses black magic. All warlocks are sorcerers, but not all sorcerers are warlocks.

Since he’s curious, he visits Deaton and just outrights asks, “How did you learn all this stuff, anyway?”

Deaton looks up from where he’s sorting feathers into different boxes. But his answer is as enigmatic as his smile. “Oh, I picked up pieces here and there.”

“Sure you did,” Stiles mutters.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Almost three weeks pass without incident. Stiles is whistling along to the radio as he pulls into the space at the grocery store. It’s been a pretty good day, all things considered. He likes to go to the grocery store on Monday; it’s so much quieter then. He spent most of home ec class looking for a recipe for key lime pie. Lydia has been talking about it lately. He’s never tried to make it, and he likes trying new recipes. He needs to pick up something to make for dinner, too.

He’s halfway to the store when he realizes that he’s left his phone in his backpack, and his backpack in the passenger seat of the Jeep. That’s what he gets for going to the store straight from school instead of going to do his homework. He debates for a minute whether or not he really needs it, but his shopping list is on it, and he’ll inevitably forget _something_ if he doesn’t go back for it. So he turns around and heads back to the car.

The last thing he’s expecting is trouble. It’s the middle of the day, broad daylight, in an extremely public place. But then, out of the blue, something dodges around the Jeep and lunges at him. It’s so fast that he doesn’t even really see it. It’s an amorphous blur, blending into the background, but Stiles catches a glint of light reflecting off wickedly sharp claws. He throws himself backwards, and the swipe that would have disemboweled him instead slashes two neat marks into his abdomen.

The world is suddenly in sharp focus, his connection to the wolf inside amplified. The pain is relegated to the back of his mind. He dodges another blow, trying to get a look at his attacker. It’s fast, very fast, probably faster than any of the wolves. He could make it to his Jeep, but by the time he fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, it would be on him.

So he runs. He heads to the back of the parking lot and just _runs_. As tempting as it is to run into the store itself, he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t know what sort of creature this is. Most supernatural nasties wouldn’t want to follow him into a populated place, but then again most wouldn’t attack in a grocery store parking lot. If it went inside after him, there would be hysteria, and quite likely carnage. He ducks around the store and climbs the chain link fence at the back of the lot, running into an unkempt meadow. He can see the woods on the horizon.

He can’t hear it behind him and has no idea if it’s there. Just when he’s thinking he might have outrun it, it lands a glancing blow along his shoulder. His jacket protects him – he understands now why all the wolves wear leather, despite their frequent joking about it – but the force of it sends him tumbling to the ground. He rolls twice and then scrambles to his feet. He’s trained for this; they’ve all trained for this. He’s not much in a fight, but the grocery store isn’t far from Derek’s apartment. All he has to do is stay alive until his pack can reach him.

Now he’s in the forest, and sprints up a small rise. He’s not sure how long he’s been running, but he knows he can’t run much longer. He’s fast, and his endurance is higher than a normal human’s would be, but there are limits. He can maintain a steady pace for hours if he has to, but a flat sprint won’t last forever. Already, he can feel his breath burning in the back of his throat. The wounds on his abdomen aren’t helping. He has one arm pressed over them, slowing the bleeding, but he can’t apply pressure with a compress until he stops, so he’s still losing blood. He’s getting a little dizzy.

As he tops the hill, he sees a fallen tree. He zigzags suddenly and leaps over it, coming down hard on the other side. He presses himself into the dirt and dead leaves, panting for breath but trying to do it silently.

He doesn’t hear any footsteps. But he does hear a slight shift and crackle of the leaves on the ground. _Something_ is there. He risks a peek over the top of the tree, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Hopefully its hearing isn’t as good as a wolf’s. But even getting a good look at it doesn’t help. It seems to be made of air; that or it’s wearing some kind of camouflage. It’s about the size and shape of a man, but has no features, no clothing. Even the claws can’t be seen, now that it’s not actively wielding them.

Whatever it is, it’s no wolf. It looks over at the tree but doesn’t come any closer, so it can neither smell nor hear him. But it moves slowly now, prowling around. It clearly knows that Stiles hasn’t followed the path, because it starts moving in a gradual spiral. Moving out from the last point where it knows Stiles was.

Stiles feels panic rise in his throat, but forces it down. Using a search pattern like that, it’ll find him eventually. His hiding place isn’t the greatest. It’s banking on the fact that he’s hiding, not that he’s outrun it, so it has a basic grasp on his abilities. He reminds himself that Derek and the others should be there any minute.

But Derek and the others _aren’t_ there, and he can’t feel them coming, can’t feel that wave of distress and rage that _should_ accompany a member of their pack being hurt and cornered. He has no idea why, but it’s one of the most frightening things he’s ever experienced. After Peter had left him for dead, one of the few things that had kept him sane was knowing that it would never happen to him again. That his pack would always come to his rescue if he needed it. But they aren’t coming. It turns his entire world upside down, fills his stomach with panic that can’t be contained or controlled.

The creature is coming closer now. One more circle, maybe two, and it’ll get to the tree and look over and see him lying there. Stiles doesn’t know what to do besides wait for it. He watches in strange fascination as a centipede crawls out from the dead wood only a few inches from his face. It almost makes him laugh. It’s like he’s in The Lord of the Rings, a movie he’s watched so many times he has it memorized.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he chides himself. Lying in the dirt, waiting to be rescued. What the fuck is he doing? He reaches out for a piece of dead wood lying a few feet away. When the creature moves away from him, he risks sitting up for a better angle and throws it, hard. It lands down the hill and slides a few feet. Just like in the movie, the creature swings around and starts toward it.

Stiles crawls. The wounds on his abdomen burn, and he’s sure that rubbing them through the forest dirt is not helping. But he doesn’t want to stand, not yet. Once he’s back over the rise and out of sight, he gets to his feet and starts to jog. A few minutes later, he starts to recognize his surroundings. Thank God for all the time he’s spent in the forest, running with his wolves; otherwise he would be seriously lost. He’s on the edge of the preserve.

Since he seems to have lost his attacker, he risks a quick stop to examine the wounds. They’re nasty, at least six inches long each, although fortunately shallow. They’ve clearly bled a lot, and have dirt ground into them besides. He swears softly. He’s too far away from Deaton’s clinic, and although he won’t say as much anywhere near Scott, he isn’t sure he trusts the veterinarian right now. To get to Derek’s, where Scott is, he would have to go back into town, and someone would notice he was hurt. He could go to the hospital – it isn’t too far – but he’s not sure he dares. This would be his third admission in less than a year. Eventually, eyebrows will be raised. People will start to wonder what exactly he does with his time that always ends in his strange injuries. Trouble for him equals trouble for his father. He doesn’t want to risk it.

But there’s one other place he could go, one other person who knows about supernatural things and knows how to treat injuries. Who lives near the preserve. Who can – usually – be trusted.

So Stiles starts jogging again, and five minutes later he’s standing on the front door of the Argent house, ringing the bell. Chris opens it a few moments later, and at first the look on his face is just exasperated. This is no surprise, given that Stiles showing up on his doorstep without invitation is something that happens a lot more often than he would like. But then he sees how pale Stiles is, sees the blood soaking through his shirt. “Get inside,” he says, and stands back, ushering Stiles into the front hall and closing the door. “What happened? Is Allison okay?”

“Allison’s – ” It occurs to Stiles suddenly that he has no idea if Allison is all right, if any of the pack are all right. If they couldn’t feel his distress, would he be able to feel theirs? Only the knowledge that Allison was with both Scott and Lydia, and going straight to Derek’s, keeps him from panic. “Should be fine. I was alone. Ambushed.”

“Shit.” Chris doesn’t waste time with questions like ‘why did you come to me?’ He assumes, correctly, that Stiles has his reasons. “Downstairs.”

The basement door is open, so he must have been working down there. He shoves a pile of papers off the table and makes Stiles lie down. He grimaces as he peels the shirt away from where it’s been ground into the wound, and Stiles makes a small, animal noise.

“I don’t have any local anesthetic,” Chris tells him. “Just the heavy stuff. You want me to knock you out?”

Stiles wants that desperately, but he doesn’t dare. Not because he doesn’t trust Chris, but because he has absolutely no clue what’s going on and he knows from experience that drugs like that will put him out cold for an hour or more. Anything could happen. “No,” he says.

“Okay,” Chris says, and turns over his shoulder. “Victoria!” he calls. “Come give me a hand here!”

Victoria comes down the stairs a moment later with a questioning look on her face. She sees the mess that is Stiles’ abdomen and makes a startled noise. Like Chris, she immediately follows up with, “Is Allison – ”

“She’s fine,” Chris says. For Stiles’ benefit, he adds, “She actually texted me about twenty minutes ago to let me know where she was going to be today. So if she wasn’t with Stiles, which she wasn’t, she should be okay.” He takes a set of keys from a chain around his neck and unlocks several of the cabinets. “You’re going to have to hold him. He’ll fight you.”

Victoria nods, gaze dead serious. “I’m ready.”

Chris yanks a drawer open and starts removing supplies. He takes out a clean rag and says, “A little barbaric, sorry, but open your mouth.”

Stiles does as he’s told and then bites down hard on the cloth as he feels the sting of the disinfectant. He reminds himself that Chris is helping, Chris is cleaning out the injury. He manages to stay still on his own until he actually starts stitching up the wounds. Then he howls and starts thrashing. But Chris’ body weight rests against his legs, and Victoria holds down his arms with strength that gives the lie to her somewhat delicate appearance.

By the time Chris is finished, Stiles is shuddering and sobbing for breath. And still no wolves have broken down the door to find out what the hell is wrong with their alpha. “Drink this,” Chris says, taking the cloth out of his mouth. Stiles takes the cup and almost downs it without asking, but then hesitates. “Whiskey,” Chris adds, and Stiles knocks it back. He looks down at his abdomen, at the two neatly stitched wounds. Chris is good at what he does. Victoria wraps a blanket around Stiles’ shoulders while Chris tapes some bandages down over the injuries.

When all is said and done, Stiles gives a nod of thanks. Chris just gives him a hard stare and says, “Now is when I demand an explanation.”

Stiles pulls the blanket tighter around himself and says, “I wish I had one to give you.”

Chris’ lips thin as he presses them together, but then he apparently decides not to push the issue. “I’ll drive you home.”

Stiles gives another nod and whispers, “To Derek’s apartment. Please. And thank you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, who's in the mood for some hurt/comfort? =D

 

The ride to Derek’s place passes entirely in silence, which seems to unnerve Chris a little, since he’s never seen Stiles so quiet, not even after his father was injured and in the hospital. It takes about fifteen minutes to get there. He pulls his car into a space and puts it in park. Stiles doesn’t move for a long minute. He’s just staring at that dark empty space between their car and the door. It’s only about fifty feet. Surely he can walk fifty feet. But he feels frozen, numb. He just stares at the warm lights of the apartment building and doesn’t move. After a minute, Chris clears his throat and says, “I’ll walk you inside.”

“What? Oh. Oh,” Stiles says, somewhat jerkily. “Okay.” He undoes his seat belt and climbs out of the car. His neck cranes around for a minute as he searches for possible threats, and he waits until Chris has come around the car before he starts towards the door to the apartment building. He has a key, but has to fumble for a minute before he can let them in. He stares at his shaking hands like they belong to somebody else.

Derek’s apartment is down a short hallway, which Stiles doesn’t like. He feels squeezed and claustrophobic, but makes it to the door all right. He lets himself into Derek’s apartment and takes a quick glance around. Derek is sitting on the sofa, sketching. Scott and Allison are at the kitchen table, working on their homework. Lydia is tucked in a ball on one of the bean bag chairs, reading a thick book. The knowledge that at least some of his pack are all right brings a wave of relief so intense that he’s almost dizzy with it.

Their heads all snap up as he comes in, and their normal friendly greeting immediately turns into a buzz of concern, because they can smell him, smell the fear and the blood and the disinfectant. They can also smell Chris, who’s coming in behind him, and Allison’s puzzled, “Uh, hi Dad?” somehow rings through the rest of their babble of words.

Stiles decides that he’s done. He can’t do this right now, can’t handle it. He feels small and scared. He feels like he’s suffocating. He just wants to know that he’s safe. They can deal with everything else later, and if it freaks his pack out to see him freak out, for once they’re just going to have to deal. He marches over to Derek and takes him by the wrist, tugging the puzzled wolf off the sofa and into the corner of the room. Derek protests verbally but not physically as Stiles makes him sit down and then promptly crawls into his lap and curls up there. “What . . .?” Derek says, and then Stiles presses his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and listens to his heartbeat, to the reassuring thump-thump that means he’s safe and protected.

Derek, for his part, swallows down his immediate panic over whatever has gone wrong. He needs to hold himself together for the pack, and more importantly for Stiles. Needs to be able to try to sort out what’s going on. Needs to keep his own heart rate slow and steady because that’s what Stiles needs right now. He keeps his own voice carefully even when he speaks. “Somebody open the windows. Just crank the heat if it starts to get cold in here.” They don’t need Stiles’ claustrophobia setting in along with everything else. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, but he does it slowly, cautiously, looking for any sign that it’s unwelcome. It’s alarming enough that he _needs_ to look. He hadn’t known Stiles had been hurt, had been frightened, had needed help. He should have _known_.

“What happened?” He directs the question at Chris, but his tone is stone flat.

Chris gives him a little nod as Allison trots over to open the windows. “I don’t know a lot of detail. He showed up at my place about an hour ago, bleeding from a couple of wounds on his abdomen. He didn’t say a lot, just that he had been ambushed. I patched him up and brought him back here.”

Upon this news, Scott jogs over to Stiles. His friend has curled up into a ball, but Scott manages to get him to unbend a little so he can take a look. The two slashes on his stomach look a lot less terrible now that they’re cleaned and stitched, but they still look bad. “What made these?” he asks.

“Claws, I think,” Chris says, “but I’m not sure.”

“Why didn’t we know?” Derek asks, almost to himself, and buries his nose in Stiles’ hair. He’s both taking comfort in Stiles’ scent and also looking for anything foreign, anything that might help them identify whatever attacked him. There’s nothing, though, not really. Argent, blood, the medical smells of a well-treated injury, dirt from where Stiles fell at least once. “Stiles? What happened?” he asks, mumbling the question into Stiles’ hair.

Stiles hears the question, understands it, and tries to answer it. But just _thinking_ about the events of the past few hours make another wave of panic sweep over him. He gives his head a little shake and curls back into the protective ball.

“Okay. Okay.” Derek curls tighter around Stiles and takes a deep breath. He looks at everyone else and reminds himself that he did act like an alpha once upon a time. “We need to know what happened. Scott, Allison, go with Chris back to the house and track Stiles’ steps backwards. Scott, you go shifted. That way even if there isn’t a blood trail, you can still follow his path. Allison, I want you armed to the fucking teeth.” Derek closes his eyes and tries to think. It’s difficult. He can’t feel Stiles except the body in his arms. How had he missed that slipping away? Stiles is his alpha and his partner, his mate, the cornerstone of his life. A bond like that shouldn’t just quietly dissolve. He clings to Stiles a little tighter and swallows. “Call and check in. We can’t trust the pack bond. We should have known something was wrong. We should have been able to help him.” Derek reminds himself that he doesn’t have time to freak out. Stiles needs him to hold it together. “Lydia, call the others and make sure they’re okay.”

Scott and Allison have been listening intently to this, and everyone nods when Derek stops talking. “Let me grab my shoes,” Scott says, but then Stiles stirs slightly, coming back to life.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, the words muffled in Derek’s shoulder, but easily audible to the wolves in the room.

Scott freezes and looks to Derek for further instruction, but he already knows he’s not leaving. They do need to know what happened, Derek’s right about that, but none of them are walking away from their alpha when he sounds like that. Allison, whose hearing isn’t as good as Scott’s, takes her cue from him and stops moving towards the door.

Derek sighs a little, partially in relief that Stiles is still at least following their conversation. “Okay. They’ll stay. Can you tell me what . . .” he starts to ask, but then cuts the question off. He doesn’t want to lose ground. He knows all about horrific events and shutting down. “Never mind. Can I have the others look around before they come over?” he asks, hoping that the fact that the rest of the pack isn’t here will help skirt around Stiles’ need to keep them close.

Stiles is quiet for a few moments, long enough that the others are starting to get uncomfortable. He draws himself in, tries to focus. The others have to be all right. He hasn’t been able to feel that anything’s wrong – but that thought makes him shrink back in, remembering his run through the forest, the terror building as nobody came to his aid. “Are they all right?” he asks.

Lydia looks over from where she’s been on the phone, and speaks in a soothing tone. “They’re fine, Stiles. They went over to Boyd’s after school to help him with his younger brothers. Erica says they were just about to leave anyway.”

“Okay.” Stiles tries to hold it together for another few seconds. “The Jeep. It’s still at the grocery store.” He’s not sure if that’s relevant, if it helps at all, but it’s the limit of what he can manage at the moment.

Derek rubs a hand in slow circles between Stiles’ shoulders. “That’s good. It gives us both a starting and an ending place. Do you have the keys?” He wishes that he was better at just _talking_. It would help fill the silence, which he knows Stiles hates so much.

Again, it takes Stiles a few moments to respond, but he’s coming together now, re-ordering the world the way it’s supposed to be. “Yeah.” A pause. “I didn’t have time to unlock the door.”

So he was attacked at the car. In the damned grocery store parking lot. That took balls. Derek files all this away. “Okay. Give the keys to Chris, and then Boyd or Isaac can drive it over here.”

Stiles fishes in his pockets and somehow manages to extract the keys without crawling out of Derek’s lap, but he gives a slight hiss of pain as the wounds on his stomach pull. He grits his teeth against the inevitable wave of nausea and panic, then tosses the keys to Chris, who catches them neatly in one hand. “Is that the sound of me being nominated to go pick up your other pack members?” Chris asks, arching his eyebrows at Derek.

“It would be appreciated,” Derek replies. He doesn’t bother to point out what an act of trust this is.

Chris doesn’t mention it, either. Instead, he says, “This new pack member . . . Boyd? I don’t know where he lives.”

“I’ll program the address into your GPS,” Allison says hastily, holding her hand out for her father’s phone, which he gives to her.

“I’ll call the others and let them know that Mr. Argent is going to come get them,” Lydia adds, since none of the three of them are stupid enough to get into a car with Chris Argent if they haven’t been told that it’s okay.

Derek isn’t paying much attention to what the others are doing at the moment. He trusts them to sort out the details. He’s got other things to deal with. He’d like to say that he thought out his actions, that lowering Stiles’ pain level would put more distance between Stiles and his panic threshold. But really, it’s a more visceral reaction than that. Stiles made that pained noise, and _that_ , Derek can fix because Stiles is right there. Even if he can’t make anything else right, he can take away the pain.

So without even thinking, he slides one hand up underneath Stiles’ shirt to rest against the bare skin of his side, a few fingers splaying out over the tape and gauze bandages. He exhales, and when he breathes in again, he pulls in the pain with the breath, in through where they touch skin-to-skin. It burns and screams as it twists through his veins. But the further it moves into him, the more his body heals and quiets until it’s gone.

Stiles relaxes, going limp almost abruptly, listening to the noise of Chris leaving the apartment and Lydia on the phone, telling the others the bare bones of what had happened. He opens one eye and looks up at Derek. “My phone was in the car.” He licks his lips nervously. “I went back to get it when I realized I had forgotten it in my bag. It . . .” He skips over the attack itself, shying away from that memory. “I ran, and hid in the woods. And . . . and waited. But . . . nobody came.” He’s not trying to hurt Derek, just trying to explain. “I don’t understand why.”

Derek curls around Stiles, his nose and lips pressed into the teenager’s hair again. “We didn’t know. I didn’t know. I am so, so sorry.” He knows that he’s clinging, but can’t help it. He could have lost Stiles. He wouldn’t have been able to handle that. He would have been done. “I just didn’t know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles is quiet for a minute. He had always told himself that he could handle every day because he had the pack. Because no matter what happened to him, they would keep him safe. If he got lost or trapped or injured, they would find him. But the pack isn’t all he has. They’re not the ones who found him when Peter had left him for dead. He stirs a little and says, “I want my dad. Can . . . can you call him?”

As far as Derek is concerned, Stiles can have whatever he wants. “Yeah. Sure.” He lets go of Stiles with one hand and pulls his phone out. That’s when he realizes that his hands are shaking. It’s making it hard to work the phone.

The others are all quietly watching, trying not to stare but really not having much else to do. “Want me to give him a ring?” Scott asks, his voice falsely cheerful.

Derek just drops his phone on the carpet and nods. “Please,” he says, and wraps himself back around Stiles.

Stiles listens to Scott on the phone, which turns out to be a very short conversation. “Hey, Mr. Stilinski, could you, uh, come over to Derek’s? We sort of need your help with something. Uh, sooner would be better. Thanks.” Then he hangs up. Stiles is feeling slightly giddy now, almost dizzy, from the sudden lack of pain. The endorphins are still doing their job, but have no pain to contend with.

“I think I’m kinda high,” he says fuzzily, into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek makes a sort of amused and affirmative noise and rubs his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head. After a moment, it occurs to him that he shouldn’t fall into the same silence that he was hoping Stiles would pull out of earlier. He knows that he’s prone to it. He barely spoke for a long time after the fire. “Enjoy it. It’ll help you relax.”

“Yeah.” Stiles wonders if his speech is as slurred as it sounds like to him. “Chris didn’t have any local anesthetics. So he said he could either knock me out or do it cold.”

Derek makes a small, distressed noise at this news and pulls his knees up a bit, somehow cradling Stiles closer to him.

“Jesus Christ,” Scott says quietly. He knows that Stiles wouldn’t have let Chris knock him out, but either way is dangerous. He makes a mental note to somehow get something for the Argents to use next time, even if it’s to patch up some hunter that they don’t even know. He reaches out for Allison’s hand and curls his fingers around hers gratefully when she takes it.

Stiles rubs one hand over his face. “Time’s it?”

“It’s about six,” Lydia tells him.

He frowns. “I didn’t get anything for dinner,” he says stupidly.

“We can order takeout tonight,” Scott says quickly. Then it hits him that Sheriff Stilinski is going to be here and Stiles hates it when his dad eats crappy, greasy food. He wracks his brain for a solution that will keep Stiles from worrying. “Oh!” A light bulb comes on. A very welcome light bulb. “There’s that new sub shop we found a month or so ago. They deliver, and their stuff wasn’t really greasy. They had salads, too. Even Lydia liked it, so it should be okay for your dad.”

Stiles blinks at him, then says, “Don’t let him get that Italian sub with the salami and smear it in salad dressing and try to call it healthy. He does that.”

“Got it,” Allison says, with a nod and an amused smile. The ongoing war on Papa Stilinski’s cholesterol.

Stiles is quiet for a minute. “It wasn’t a person,” he says. “But it wasn’t a wolf, either. I don’t know _what_ it was.”

“There’s no scent left on you,” Derek adds. “Maybe Chris wiped it out when he patched you up.” If Chris had been thinking like a wolf, he would have pulled Stiles’ shirt off and bagged it for them to try to pull a scent from, but clearly he hadn’t been thinking that way. Stiles’ clothes around the injuries are saturated with the scent of blood, but mostly the disinfectant which burns the nose and every other scent away. Derek doesn’t hold it against Chris. He had most likely saved Stiles’ life while Derek sat at home, oblivious.

“No,” Stiles says. “No, it had no scent.” He looks up at Derek, suddenly feeling calm and crystalline clear. He doesn’t know where the feeling comes from. Maybe the panic is finally fading. “I had no idea it was there. I didn’t hear it or smell it or see it coming. It was just suddenly _there_.”

Derek forces himself to uncurl some, since Stiles seems to be evening out. Just because he wants to cling and clutch doesn’t mean that’s what Stiles wants. “That’s not possible. Things don’t just appear.” He says it in a way that suggests not that he thinks Stiles is wrong or crazy, but that he would like to know when the rules of the universe suddenly changed against them. First he gets sick, then he loses his connection to Stiles, which is enough to shake his foundation. And now this.

“Why are you letting me go?” Stiles asks, his tone somewhat confused. “Don’t let me go.”

Derek just curls right back up, sparing a thought for how high Stiles obviously was. No other prompting was needed. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not until we fix this.”

There’s a sharp rapping on the door and Scott opens it to reveal an extremely worried-looking Sheriff Stilinski. Scott stands back to let him in, and he pauses when he catches sight of Stiles and Derek cuddled up in the corner. “What in the hell . . .?”

“Dad,” Stiles says, and reaches out to him without leaving Derek’s embrace.

Derek looks up at the man, his expression flat even though his body language is clearly upset, his cheek still pressed to Stiles’ hair. Sheriff Stilinski takes all this in, then sits down next to them. He manages to get an arm around both their shoulders so Stiles is somehow squished in between them, although he has to pull them out of the corner some in order to do so. Stiles doesn’t mind. For him, there’s no safer place in the world than between these two men. Derek goes stiff and immovable for a moment and then suddenly melts, much like Stiles had melted against him. It’s been a long time since anyone older than himself that he had any respect or affection for has laid hands on him, let alone offered him a hug. For a few moments, he had simply forgotten how to react.

“So, anyone want to tell me what’s going on?” Stilinski asks, wondering how to carefully shift this puppy pile before he pulls a muscle or his foot falls asleep.

“He was hurt,” Derek says, somewhere into Stilinski’s jacket. “We should have gone to help him and we didn’t.”

Scott sighs. He and Derek may not be friends, but they are pack. Derek is Stiles’ lupa and he can respect that. So he can’t really just stand around and watch Derek beat himself up. “Not that version. That version makes it sound like we did it voluntarily, and that’s stupid, because we all know that we would never do that to Stiles.” Someone had to say it. Derek is apparently done being a competent alpha stand-in and has proceeded onto being an emotional train wreck. “Something attacked Stiles in the grocery store parking lot. We don’t know what. We still don’t have a lot of details because Stiles isn’t ready to tell us. But he got away and went into the woods, and waited for us to come help him. Except we didn’t.” It hurts to have to say that. “Because we didn’t know anything was wrong. We _should_ have known, but we didn’t. So when no help came, he went to Mr. Argent’s house, because he was closest person who knows anything about this kind of stuff. Mr. Argent patched him up and brought him here.”

Stilinski’s arms tighten around his son for a moment. “And physically, he’s going to be all right?” he asks, wanting to get that out of the way first.

Allison nods, even though she hasn’t seen the wounds. “My dad knows what he can handle. He would have dragged Stiles to the ER even if Stiles didn’t like it, if he thought it was bad enough.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have my mom keep an eye on things, but it looked okay to me,” Scott adds.

Stiles looks up and says somewhat blearily, “He said I would have to come back in a couple days to take the stitches out. He’s not sure how fast it’ll heal.”

“Stitches?” Stilinski’s brow furrows. “Stiles, I’m not sure – ”

“We can have my mom take a look at him,” Scott interrupts hastily, before Sheriff Stilinski’s concern can damage Stiles’ calm. “Really. I looked already. Mr. Argent took good care of him.”

“Well,” Stilinski says. “All right. Where are the others?”

“They were going to pick up Stiles’ Jeep and then check out the area before they came here,” Lydia says. “I told them to stay together and not to leave the parking lot. We’ll see if they can figure anything out.”

“I’m sorry I’m useless,” Stiles mumbles into his father’s shoulder.

Scott rolls his eyes a little. “You’re hurt and higher than a kite. It isn’t your job to be useful right now.” He looks at the Sheriff as if to confirm that this was the right thing to say.

He gives a little nod in response. “Don’t even worry about it,” he says. “We’re going to take care of this, so you just try to relax and not worry about anything.”

There’s quiet for a moment while Derek holds Stiles and leans into Sheriff Stilinski. “I don’t know why we couldn’t tell something was wrong. Not even now, and he’s right here.”

“It must have something to do with the same sorcerer that made you sick,” Lydia says. She seems determined to work through the problem logically. “He can obviously do magic that affect werewolves. I don’t know why he’s after us, but the most likely explanation is that he’s done some sort of spell that’s having an adverse effect on the pack bond.”

Derek gives a shudder. “I can’t . . . I can’t do this. Not again.”

“We’ll work it out,” Allison says, with confidence in her voice. “I mean, my dad will help, and tracking down evil is what he does.”

Stiles gives a little nod. It’s suddenly setting in that this is something that someone _did_ to him. That it’s not natural, or some strange event that just happened to have occurred. Somebody looked at his pack and started thinking about what they could do to hurt them. They used Derek’s illness as a way to lure out the alpha. That was why the sorcerer hadn’t objected to him taking the doll. It was just a piece in a larger game. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters.

Derek’s teeth clench together tight enough to creak. He has Stiles pulled against him and turns his face further into Stilinski’s jacket. He knows that he’s the adult of his pack, even if Stiles is the alpha, and that he should pull his shit together, but he just can’t. Not when someone else is offering shelter and he wasn’t even given a choice about whether or not to accept it. It was just suddenly there. Stilinski hadn’t offered him a hug. He was giving one whether Derek liked it or not. And every time he thinks he’s okay, it crashes in that someone is trying to take his pack away from him again.

The others start talking about magic and monsters, and Lydia is quoting from the bestiary while Allison starts looking through the directory of different hunters and their methods that she’s been putting together ever since the alpha hunters hit town. Both Stiles and Derek let the conversation wash around them. Sheriff Stilinski gradually manages to pull them out of the corner so he can sit down properly and no longer have a stitch in his side.

The door to the apartment bangs open about twenty minutes later and the other three pack members come in, all of them confused and concerned, and in Erica’s case, angry about being that way. “Okay, what the _fuck_ is going, holy fuck, Stiles,” she cuts herself off and immediately drops to her knees beside her alpha, taking his chin between his hands. “Are you okay?”

Stiles manages a weak smile, feeling like he’s doing a lot better than he was earlier. “I’ve had better days,” he says.

Scott gives a quick summary of what happened, and Allison goes over some of their theories, just to bring everyone up to speed. Erica makes several profane comments, but Boyd is quiet as usual, and Isaac is just watching. He’s caught on to the way both Stiles and Derek are basically cuddled into Sheriff Stilinski’s lap. Stiles isn’t so surprising. He’s a tactile person, and close to both his father and Derek. But Derek doing the same? In Isaac’s mental scale of one to complete meltdown, Derek is edging pretty close to the top. He scratches at his eyebrows. “Half of us need therapy.”

“Only half?” Lydia remarks dryly.

“Never mind that,” Erica says, impatient. “We didn’t find shit. Nobody has touched the Jeep, and we didn’t smell anything or see anything unusual. All we saw were Stiles’ tracks heading out of the parking lot and behind the store, and since you told us not to leave the lot, we didn’t follow them.”

“If it had mass enough to hurt, it should have a scent,” Derek says. This is clearly bothering him on a deep and fundamental level.

“Look, Fido, all I’m saying is that it didn’t,” Erica says.

“Screw you, Lassie,” Derek snaps back, but he’s not really angry, and the others are relieved to see him show a little life.

“It . . . wasn’t there.” Stiles looks up. “I couldn’t _see_ it. It was like . . .” He hesitates. “You know how the invisibility cloak looked in the Harry Potter movies? I mean, when he first puts it on, and they’re doing the CG so you can see how it works? That’s what it looked like.”

“Purposefully giving us nothing to track,” Allison says.

“Good thing I put all of the bestiary in the computer,” Lydia says, tapping away at her phone. “Stiles, what else can you remember?”

Stiles closes his eyes and forces himself to think back. He feels panic starts to shake his body, but grimly holds it at bay. “Not a good sense of smell, or hearing. I hid. It couldn’t find me when I hid. It had to look. Moved in a spiral pattern, so it’s smart, or the intelligence directing it is smart.”

Allison speaks up and says, “It couldn’t see very well, either. If it was working a spiral search pattern, it’s almost like it was waiting to run right into you. And it doesn’t sound animal. It had to search for you, so it couldn’t track your movement. Most predators track moving things really well.”

For the first time since arriving at the apartment, Stiles manages a real smile. “Give me some credit here,” he says. “I dodged off the path right after I went over a hill. It didn’t _see_ me leave the path, so that’s why it couldn’t track me.” He swallows hard and says, “Maybe I was really clever, had you thought of that?”

Allison holds her hands up in surrender, obviously amused. “My mistake.” Then she grows more serious. “I wasn’t sure if you had made it to the woods before it caught you. Hiding in a parking lot is really hard. I’ve tried.” Her shoulders slump. “I’m still right about the sense of hearing and smell. Name me one predator that doesn’t have at least one or the other.”

“Maybe it has some sort of magical signature,” Scott says. “I can ask Dr. Deaton – ”

“No,” Stiles says. His voice comes out sharp and sudden. Even he looks a little surprised at his own vehemence.

Stilinski takes a quick look at his son, concerned about the knee-jerk reaction. Everyone else just looks confused, particularly Scott, whose shoulders tense and tighten. “Why not? None of us know anything about magic.”

Stiles doesn’t want to have this conversation. He feels far too fragile to handle it if Scott decides to get angry. But he’s brought it up, and he can’t get away from it now. He wonders if he can get away with ‘because I said so’. “I don’t trust him,” he says.

“What do you mean, you don’t trust him?” Scott asks. It comes out hot and upset before he can even think.

Derek turns to face him and growls, low and full of potential threat. It happens with as little thought as Scott’s outburst had had, but with more effect. He doesn’t shift at all, aside from the glow of his eyes, but he doesn’t need to. Boyd and Isaac look down almost immediately, resisting the urge to shift and tuck their tails between their legs. Erica isn’t far behind, although she curls towards Stiles, not Derek. He untangles a hand from Stiles to run it over her hair, because this really has nothing to do with her and the others. This was about Scott not knowing that this is a bad time to get snippy with his alpha.

Scott automatically, instinctively takes a step back, taken off guard by Derek’s response. But then his fists curl loosely at his sides and his shoulders straighten into a posture of challenge. Derek isn’t his alpha, and he’s not going to roll over for him. “Look, you asshole – ”

“Both of you stop it.” Sheriff Stilinski might not be a wolf, but his voice comes out firm and authoritative, clearly a man who’s used to being obeyed. “Fighting with each other is the _last_ thing any of you should be doing right now.”

Derek tenses, clearly not liking the disapproval in the man’s voice, but he can’t stop himself from trying to protect Stiles, either. “Don’t yell at him. Not now.” It does come out more like an order than anything else, but some of the glow fades from his eyes. He doesn’t want Scott to roll over. He just wants to make sure that Scott doesn’t upset Stiles.

Scott’s gaze flicks from Derek to Stiles, then he shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “Yeah. Sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head a little. “I should have told you. When he saw that doll that was making Derek sick, he . . . he knew too much about it. I know he’s your boss and that you like him, but . . . he’s involved in this somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I can feel it.”

“But . . .” Scott flounders, upset and uncertain. He’s not stupid enough to tell Stiles that he’s wrong, but he’s worked for Dr. Deaton for years, and he’s sure that he’s a good person.

“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Allison says, curling her fingers around Scott’s. “It can keep until we’re not keyed up.”

Scott glances at her and then nods, once again grateful for her and her ability to talk him down from emotional ledges just by breathing near him. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Well, one thing is clear,” Lydia says, looking up. “This thing was magic. It’s called a ‘sending’. It’s not actually intelligent in and of itself – it’s like a three-dimensional projection of the sorcerer that wields it. Because of that, it doesn’t have a lot of physical mass, and doesn’t hold to one shape. Its senses are severely limited, but it’s fast, and can do plenty of damage.”

“How long do they last, and how do you stop them?” Allison immediately volleys back.

“How long they last, _and_ how solid they are, depends on the strength of the sorcerer casting them,” Lydia says, tapping her screen to scroll through the information in the bestiary. “It’s a complex spell to cast. It says the average lasts about a minute, but sendings have been present for an hour or more, and theoretically there’s no limit on how long they could last.”

Stiles stirs slightly. “This was no minute monster,” he says. He struggles to try to time things. “How long do you guys think my best flat-out sprint is?”

“I dunno. Maybe five minutes?” Scott says, which is considerably longer than it used to be.

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says. “It chased me that whole time, and then there was another good five minutes or so in the forest while it looked around for me, and it didn’t show any signs that it was going away any time soon.”

“Any way to protect against them?” Derek asks.

“Well, the problem is that because they’re not technically _there_ unless the sender wants them to be, they can dodge attacks pretty easily,” Lydia says. “Like if you shot at one, it would just phase out and the bullets would go right through where it had been. I’m guessing you could stop one with mountain ash, though. That stuff seems to be a pretty good general block against witchcraft nastiness.”

When it becomes clear that they aren’t going to solve all their problems this very moment, the pack decides to order dinner and watch some television to try to distract themselves. It doesn’t go too badly, although Stiles is still quiet and withdrawn, which is strange in and of itself. Derek is edgy, but the rest of them start to relax after a little while, and eventually, Stiles drifts off to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Service dogs for PTSD: a real thing!
> 
> People who would look at a wolf and think it's a dog: suspend your disbelief?

 

Sheriff Stilinski decides to sleep on the couch rather than try to relocate the entire pack back to his house. It’s actually a fairly comfortable sofa, and he wakes up the next morning more rested than he would have expected, although with an aching back and shoulder. The others rise a little more slowly, reluctantly preparing for school. Stiles barely slept at all, having been plagued by bad dreams, but he’s had a lot of coffee and Adderall so he’s relatively perky. He’s recovered enough to insist that everyone eat breakfast, even though he himself is eating a Snickers bar.

Derek gets up with the rest of them, which is unusual. Normally, when the alarm goes off, he buries his head underneath a pillow and goes back to sleep. But today he’s up, showered, and dressed. He eats his breakfast while pacing around in pent-up agitation before finally planting himself in front of Stiles and saying, “You’re not going anywhere today. You _can’t_.”

“I have school,” Stiles says, in the sort of tone that is not at all convinced of what he’s saying. “And I never did get the shopping done. Lydia wanted key lime pie.”

Lydia thinks about rolling her eyes or mentioning that the pie isn’t that important, but it’s obvious that Stiles is perseverating on small and inconsequential things due to trauma, so she just lets it go. The pie is Stiles’ effort to pretend things are okay, and she won’t take that away from him.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Derek retorts. Everything about him is tense, like he’s ready to break. “I can’t . . .” He suddenly paces back and forth in a small, tight line in front of Stiles. “I could have lost you yesterday and I didn’t even _know_ it. I can’t do this again. I’ll wear that stupid fucking vest if I have to.”

Stiles bites down on his lip and gives a worried glance around the rest of the room. “I . . . I guess that would be all right? Can he come to school with me?”

“I don’t see any reason why not, but I think we had better call ahead to let them know,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Why don’t you two come to work with me today?”

The relief that washes through Derek is so sudden that he actually sways a little as his body relaxes. He nods to the Sheriff. “Yeah, that . . . that sounds good.”

“Wait, why do the two of you get a day off and the rest of us are stuck going to school?” Erica demands, but her tone is joking and she slides an arm around Stiles’ waist in support. “That doesn’t seem fair to me.”

Derek feels almost stupidly relieved. At least for the moment, it lifts the mood enough to find one of his infuriating smirks. “Because we’re prettier.”

“Jerk, I am the prettiest one here,” Erica says.

“Just because you show the most cleavage doesn’t make you the prettiest,” Lydia says.

“No, the fact that I’m the prettiest means I’m the prettiest,” Erica replies, smirking back.

“Ladies, this is a fascinating conversation,” Stilinski says, “but I’m thinking that you should probably get going.”

Allison hugs Stiles and rubs her cheek against his, then repeats this with Derek before heading out the door. “We’ll check in throughout the day, okay?” she says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Be careful. Don’t get your phones taken away. And . . .” He swallows. “We’ll come pick you up after school, I guess.”

“We can come to you,” Allison offers. “Lydia and I both have our cars. It’s a little more squished than we’re used to, but we can do it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says again. There are suddenly so many logistics to attend to. Scott and Isaac have lacrosse practice after school, and he knows that Allison has an archery tournament coming up over the weekend. Boyd has to go home for at least an hour or two each afternoon to pick his siblings up from school, make sure they do their homework and eat some dinner. Erica’s also required to put in appearances at home periodically or her mother gets worried. Just the thought of trying to coordinate all this gives Stiles a headache.

Lydia tosses her hair. “Stiles, stop worrying about the details. You have that look.” She waves a hand at him to indicate that she knows what he’s thinking. “We’ll sort it out at lunch. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says gratefully. They troop out of the apartment and Derek locks it behind them.

Once they’re in the cruiser and on their way to the station, Stilinski says, “Stiles, I’m going to embarrass you for a minute, okay?”

“Joy,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“I just want you to know that I’m really proud of you for the way you’ve handled this,” his father says. “Letting us worry about things and take care of you instead of trying to handle it all yourself.”

Stiles immediately flushes red. “I’m getting congratulated for hiding in a corner with my head in the proverbial sand?”

“Yes. That’s exactly it,” Derek replies. “You’re being congratulated for not trying to pretend that nothing is wrong so you can fix it all yourself.” He gives a little shrug and adds, “Besides, it makes us feel better to help you once in a while.”

“It sure as hell wasn’t making you feel better last night,” Stiles retorts.

“Are you kidding?” Derek throws manly pride to the wind and wraps an arm around Stiles, glad that the teenager has climbed into the back with him rather than sitting up front with his father.

“Uh, no,” Stiles says, his tone abrupt, almost angry. “It didn’t make you feel better last night to see me completely lose my shit. It freaked you the fuck out. Don’t try to tell me that it didn’t, because I know you better than that.”

Derek let his head fall back and thunk against the seat’s head rest. “Yes, I freaked the fuck out. I’m _still_ freaking the fuck out.” There’s no point in lying, especially when he had basically thrown another hissy fit ten minutes prior at the thought of Stiles going anywhere without him. “But a) you were going to lose your shit anyway. I know you well enough to know that, so it would have just frightened me more to try to deal with it blind. B) Half of this is your issues, but let’s not lie to ourselves; half of it is mine.” Derek isn’t stupid enough to think that the others haven’t figured that out, but he doesn’t think he would have been able to admit it to anyone except Stiles.

“Yeah, well . . .” Stiles squirms a little, then sighs and surrenders. “This sort of coping feels all backwards to me.”

“I just agreed to spend the next however many days wearing a little blue vest and reliving high school. Go ahead and tell me about fucked up coping mechanisms.”

Stiles lets out a little snigger despite himself. “I guess at least I’m not the only one who’s fucked up? Or something like that. I just feel bad about the others seeing me like that. Especially the ones who weren’t around after the whole Peter and Gerard debacle.”

“If you gave them the choice, they wouldn’t leave,” Derek says, pulling Stiles against his shoulder. “And not even just because of the perks. They all knew that they weren’t the only basket cases when they signed on. We never made any secret of it.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs as his father pulls up in front of their house.

“I’ll go grab the vest,” Stilinski says, getting out of the car. “Be right back.”

“You’d better get shifted,” Stiles says.

“Yeah.” Derek toes off his shoes and then eels out of the seat and into the well before peeling off his clothes, because having a man strip in a police car would draw more attention than any of them can stand right now. The shifting of bone and muscle is smooth and natural, and before long there’s a large wolf taking up the rest of the back seat, front paws and head resting in Stiles’ lap.

Sometimes it’s easier to talk to Derek when he’s in his wolf form and can’t say anything back. Stiles stares out the window for a minute and then says, “I just . . . hate feeling weak.”

That, Derek can very much understand and sympathize with. He settles his weight a little more firmly and flicks his ears to show that he’s listening. He could look up at Stiles, but nobody likes to be stared at while making confessions of any sort.

“But stop beating yourself up, okay?” Stiles adds. “This wasn’t your fault. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, and we’re going to fix it. That’s a solid promise.”

Derek presses his face into Stiles’ stomach. This is one of those times when being a wolf makes communication both easier and more difficult. With that one motion, he can accept the promise and express his trust in Stiles to follow through on it, because the move leaves his throat vulnerable. But at the same time, he can’t explain that this isn’t just about beating himself up. Sure, some of it was guilt. He would always feel guilty any time he failed to protect Stiles. But a lot of it was raw, base instinct, _fear_.

His alpha, who he had loved each time, had been taken away from him twice. Murdered, both times. Derek had loved his father and his sister fiercely. Stiles was the first alpha he had chosen to follow. He was Stiles’ lupa. They had built this pack together. No, it wasn’t all guilt. It was a near-crippling fear of loss, which prompts the small whine from his throat.

Stiles rather absently runs his fingers through the fur of Derek’s throat and chest, watching as his father comes back out to the car, carrying the blue vest they had gotten that proclaimed Derek a service animal. “We need more information,” he finally says, “but I don’t know what to do about Dr. Deaton. I don’t know whether or not we can trust him.”

Derek’s weight sags and he goes boneless underneath Stiles’ touch. It’s comforting, as long as it’s coming from Stiles. He wouldn’t be thrilled about anyone else laying their hands on his throat, even another pack member. He’s not sure what to do about Deaton. The man’s concern and efforts to help while Derek had been sick had seemed honest enough. Derek had never detected a lie, but he had been ill, and he had to take into account the possibility that Deaton could lie to wolves.

Laura had mentioned him a few times, at least vaguely, and he had been helping her. But he had never mentioned that to Derek until directly cornered. Now Laura is dead, and Derek doesn’t appreciate Deaton withholding information. In the end, he can’t voice any of this, so he gives a little shrug and then passes the buck by pawing at the back of the driver’s seat.

“Right,” Stiles says, as his father gets back in the car. The man passes the vest back to them and Stiles starts putting it on Derek. “Dad, what do you think we should do about Dr. Deaton?”

Stilinski backs the cruiser out of the driveway and looks over his shoulder at Stiles. “Maybe you should just try talking to him.”

Derek stands up on the seat so Stiles can get the vest on him properly, his tail waving around to help him keep his balance in a moving car. It seems like such an absurdly simple, obvious solution. But then again, he can’t be blamed for not coming up with it. It’s a well-known fact that Derek has no communication skills.

Stiles frowns. “What, just walk up to him and ask, ‘Dr. Deaton, can we trust you?’”

His father gives a little shrug. “You’d be surprised how far that can get you. He’s helped you in the past. He seems like an honest guy. If he has a conflict of interest here for whatever reason, he may just tell you that.”

Derek considers this for a minute. It seems reasonable enough to him. He tries to shrug and then nearly falls over in an undignified heap. Stiles nods a little and says, “Okay. I guess I can go talk to him this afternoon.” Derek files that away to wrangle into the schedule to work out at lunch. In fact, they should probably go down before everyone gets out of school.

He sits down for the rest of the ride, and they pull up outside the police station a few minutes later. Stiles fastens a collar around his neck and clips a leash to it. “Sorry, dude,” he says, keeping it only loosely wrapped around his hand so Derek has plenty of slack as they get out of the car. Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh but then leans over to lick Stiles’ hand. He knows the laws and the role he volunteered to play – or basically insisted upon playing. He can’t really bitch now.

Sandy, the receptionist, looks up as the three of them come in. “Hey, boss,” she says. “Hi, Stiles. Why aren’t you at school today?”

Sheriff Stilinski steps in before Stiles can come up with some Stiles-esque excuse. Those are often entirely ridiculous and yet sometimes frighteningly believable. “Morning, Sandy. He just finished training with his service dog yesterday, but we haven’t cleared everything with the school yet.”

Sandy gets a glimpse of Derek and her eyes go wide. “Wow, he’s _huge_ ,” she says. “What’s his name?”

There’s a moment of completely blank silence while Stiles wonders why he didn’t anticipate this question, and blurts out the first inoffensive name he can think of. “Jack.”

Derek, who isn’t stupid, knows how a well-trained dog behaves and how to impress people. So as soon as the name leaves Stiles’ mouth – and really it isn’t bad for something off the cuff, given all the possible ridiculous choices – he sits up and looks up at Stiles expectantly.

“Yeah, he is,” Stilinski agrees, trying not to crack a grin at the un-Derek-like behavior. “He’s going to cost me a fortune in food.”

“Eh, he eats less than me,” Stiles says, which is actually true.

“I guess I’m not supposed to pet him, huh,” Sandy says, somewhat wistfully. “That’s too bad. I have an uncle who breeds German Shepherds. They’re great dogs. But I didn’t know you were getting a service dog.” She looks at Stiles in blatant curiosity. “What for?”

“You know, you’re not actually allowed to ask that?” Stiles says. “Like if I bring him into a grocery store, they can’t make me leave, and if they ask what type of service dog he is, I don’t have to answer.”

“True, the ADA does protect you against that,” Stilinski says, although his tone doesn’t really reprimand Sandy for asking. It’s hard to forget that she used to help him look after Stiles when he was eight and his mother had just died, and Stilinski couldn’t bring himself to let anyone else help with his grieving son. Not when he was still grieving himself. A lot of the people at the station had helped watch Stiles back then. When he had been missing the previous winter, the entire station had been working round the clock without even being asked, helping the sheriff try to find him.

But he doesn’t answer the question for Stiles, either. He doesn’t think he has the right to without Stiles’ permission. Frankly, if the kid didn’t have a pack of werewolves, Stilinski really would have given thought to getting him a service dog. So he just raises his eyebrows at Stiles.

“Oh,” Sandy says, blinking in response.

Stiles just smiles at her and doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s for PTSD. You know, because of what happened last winter? Like veterans get service dogs for. He helps keep me from being crowded and stuff.”

“His size doesn’t hurt in that regard,” the sheriff says, amused.  “C’mon, kid, let’s get to work. You can help sort all those unpaid parking tickets that are lying around in my office.”

“Don’t you have staff for that?” Stiles gripes, following his father into the office.

“It’ll appeal to the OCD tendencies you don’t like to admit to.” But once the door to the office is closed, he pulls Stiles into a hug. “I really am proud of you.”

Stiles sighs but doesn’t protest. “It didn’t seem worth coming up with a cover story when everyone here pretty much knows what a wreck I am.”

“You’re not a wreck. You’ve actually got PTSD. That does not make you a wreck.”

Stiles pulls away and rubs a hand over the back of his head, embarrassed. “Yeah, well . . . look, no matter what I say here about severity of initial trauma or recovery time or all the different research I’ve done, you’re just gonna give me that _look_ , so how about I just sort some unpaid parking tickets, and you go do sheriffing stuff, ‘kay?”

Sheriff Stilinski lets him go, and says, “I’m your father. It’s my job to give you that look.” But he starts gathering up piles of tickets from various bins and folders. Derek finds himself a corner that’s relatively out of the way and settles down there.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, and looks down at his phone as it jingles. “Scott’s texted to let me know they’ve all gotten to school okay,” he says, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Derek gives a pleased whuff.

“Good,” Stilinski says, glad that they all made it safely and that Stiles is unwinding a little. He holds out a handful of messy tickets to his son, then gives his shoulder a squeeze as he leaves the office to do his job.

Stiles manages to sit in one place for almost thirty minutes, which is surely some sort of record while there are disasters ongoing. Then he abruptly stands up and says, “Let’s go see Dr. Deaton.”

Derek lifts his head, but then gives a little nod. If he were in his human form, he would ask why Stiles had decided that so suddenly, but it doesn’t seem worth shifting back for an answer that will undoubtedly be some form of, “I dunno”. He watches Stiles pick up the leash, and the two of them pad out of Stilinski’s office.

Sandy looks up and frowns. “Aren’t you supposed to be staying here, doing what your dad asked you to do?”

“Done it already,” Stiles says. “Itchy feet. Be back in a bit.”

Sandy is obviously thinking about protesting, but apparently decides that since she’s not Stiles’ mother, and the Sheriff had not left her specific instructions, there’s only so much she can do. “Okay, but you’d better let him know where you’re going,” she calls after him as he leaves the station. He waves over his shoulder at her, then decides she’s probably right. He taps out a quick text to his father to let him know that he’s going down to the clinic.

Surprisingly, Dr. Deaton does employ people other than Scott, and they’re greeted by a perky receptionist. Stiles realizes belatedly that they probably should have called, since Dr. Deaton does have a job and patients to see. He clears his throat and says, “Uh, hi, I’m bringing my dog Derek in for a checkup?”

“Hm, last name?” she prompts.

“Stilinski.”

There’s a pause. “You aren’t on the schedule . . .”

“I’m not?” Stiles says, playing dumb. “He saw him a couple weeks ago. He was sick with a virus. He said he wanted to check up on him.”

“Well, let me see if he has a few minutes,” she says, and disappears into the back. Stiles takes a seat and waits. She comes back a few minutes later and says that they’ll work him in, but he may have a bit of a wait. Stiles is appropriately grateful and pulls out his phone, checking to see if he has any new texts, which he does not. Derek heaves a doglike sigh and lays down at Stiles’ feet.

They end up waiting about half an hour before the secretary waves them back. Dr. Deaton greets them cordially enough, asks Derek how he’s feeling, and shows them back into his office. It’s just as messy and disorganized as it was three weeks previous. Deaton moves a stack of charts off a chair and gestures for the two of them to sit down. “What’s on your mind?” he asks, since it’s pretty clear that they aren’t there for a typical type of check up.

“I need to ask you a question,” Stiles says, “and you’re probably not going to like it.”

Deaton’s smile never falters. “Go ahead.”

“The night that we found that little voodoo doll that was making Derek sick, you recognized it,” Stiles says. “Not the doll itself, but the spell. I saw the look on your face when you saw it. You recognized the magic and you knew who had done it. I didn’t say anything because, I guess, I didn’t know what to say. So I was just gonna let it go. But this guy isn’t going away, so now I’m in a bit of a pickle. So my question for you is, can I trust you?”

There’s a long silence. Dr. Deaton folds his hands on his desk and studies them for a moment, before looking up at Stiles. “You’re right in that I do know who this sorcerer is,” he says. “I didn’t know before I saw the doll, or I would have been able to treat Derek more effectively.” He gives the wolf a slight nod. “Let’s just say . . . this is someone to whom I owe a debt. Which puts me in an uncomfortable position.”

Stiles nods a little. “I get that.”

“I made a promise to Derek’s mother,” Deaton continues, “that I would look out for her son when I was at all capable.”

Derek lifts his head and blinks at him in surprise. A few moments later, he’s shifted into his human form. “You – you did? You knew my mother?”

Deaton doesn’t respond to his question, but just continues with what he was saying. “So I guess what I can tell you is that I will do all that I can to help you, but there are certain lines that I won’t be able to cross where this person is concerned. Does that make sense?”

Stiles gives another nod. “Yes. And thank you. As long as you’ll be able to tell me when we’ve hit one of those lines.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Great,” Stiles says, and rises to go.

“I’m sorry, but can we get back to the part where you knew my mother?” Derek says, a little more loudly than is strictly necessary. Stiles thinks about telling him that he does not look at all threatening, what with being naked and also having a collar and a leash around his now-human neck. “Because I feel like I’ve been missing some crucial information here. Maybe if I had known that, I wouldn’t have, you know, thought you were an alpha werewolf and abducted you from your own clinic.”

Deaton clears his throat. “A lot of us could have handled things better that night – ”

Stiles snickers despite himself. “Ya _think_?”

Both of the other men ignore him, and Deaton continues, “But yes, I knew your mother for a long time. I’ve acted as something of an advisor, maybe a supernatural consultant, to various families, and the Hale family was one of them. As you know, just because you’re a werewolf doesn’t mean that you know all about the supernatural world. So my job was to help keep the Hale family informed. And yes, long before the fire, I promised your mother that I would keep an eye on her children when at all possible. It’s a dangerous world that we all live in now.”

Derek’s jaw clenches. He’s clearly not at all pleased with this answer. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he demands.

“I assumed you knew. Laura came straight to me when she arrived in Beacon Hills. When you didn’t, I thought that perhaps there was a reason you didn’t want to ask me – to protect me, or because you thought I might have been involved in Laura’s death, or even simple pride. So I waited. And to be fair, the night you came to my clinic, you didn’t exactly give me a chance to explain.”

“Maybe if you’d even tried – ”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles says. “What’s done is done. As he said. Lots of people made stupid decisions right around then.”

Derek subsides, although he looks somewhat sour about it. “You make it hard to want to trust you.”

Deaton raises his eyebrows and says, “You make it hard to want to help you.”

Derek growls underneath his breath.

“Okay!” Stiles says again, getting out of his chair so fast he nearly knocks it over. “On that note, I think we’ll be going now, Dr. Deaton. Thanks for all your help while he was sick.” He takes Derek by the elbow and tugs him out of his chair, but he doesn’t really need to. The wolf is already turning to follow him. Being alpha does have its advantages.

He waits for Derek to shift back into his wolf form and picks up the leash. Then he stops and says, “Dr. Deaton, has this man contacted you since coming to town?”

“What makes you think that?” Deaton asks.

“Just curious,” Stiles says.

“Then yes,” Deaton says. “He’s emailed me a couple times. Cryptic little poems. I haven’t replied to any of them.”

“Could I read them?” Stiles asks.

Deaton hesitates, then shakes his head and says, “No.”

Stiles studies him for a minute, then says, “Okay. Thanks again.” He turns and jogs out of the veterinarian’s office, getting back to the Jeep and heading for the station. He taps on the steering wheel while he drives, deep in thought. Derek, who is obviously sulking, sits in the back with his head resting on his paws. After a minute, since Derek obviously isn’t good about people keeping secrets from him, Stiles says, “You should probably also know that all your treatment was covered, financially, by some sort of secret fund your parents put in their will.”

Derek lifts his head. Then he gives an angry growl and lowers it again.

“Deaton told me while you were sick,” Stiles continues. “I didn’t mention it because, well, you were sick. And then other things happened so I wasn’t really thinking about it. Your parents trusted Dr. Deaton, Derek. I think we should too.”

Derek heaves a sigh.

“That being said, you wanna help me break into his office tonight and read those emails?”

There’s a chuff that’s obviously a laugh. Derek springs up and leans over the seat to slobber all over Stiles’ shoulder, which Stiles greets with a laugh, and then rolls onto his back to continue letting out little wolfy chuckles.

Stiles takes that as a yes, and whistles the rest of the way back to the station.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will now take a break from our regularly scheduled programming of sorcerers and werewolves and such to bring you high school drama and a bunch of assholes.

 

 

 

Scott really isn’t sure about the idea of breaking into Dr. Deaton’s office, even though they now have solid evidence that he knows who the sorcerer is. He squirms and hems and haws while Stiles waits and thinks quietly, privately to himself that Scott’s moral compass can really be a pain in the ass sometimes. Eventually, Scott comes to the conclusion that pack welfare is more important than a) his job, or b) Dr. Deaton’s feelings. He forks over the key to the clinic.

They wait until late, until long after Stiles should be in bed, and he divides the pack up evenly again because breaking into a clinic will be hard enough with four people, let alone eight. Derek, Allison, and Erica accompany him while the rest stay back at Derek’s apartment. Sheriff Stilinski has opted to work night shift so he can personally field any calls about ‘suspicious activity’ down at the animal clinic.

But it goes over so smoothly that Stiles keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. The key works. There’s no alarm. The mountain ash doesn’t stop them. He goes into Deaton’s office and boots up the computer. It’s an old-fashioned model that doesn’t even have a log on screen, let alone ask for a password.

Stiles looks for Chrome or Firefox, but to no avail, so he sighs and pulls up Internet Explorer. A quick view of the history reveals that Dr. Deaton uses gmail, so at least he’s not completely un-tech-savvy. Stiles clicks on it and holds his breath. A moment later, it loads the mailbox. “Yes!”

“Yes, what?” Allison asks, from where she’s standing guard at the door.

“He leaves himself logged in,” Stiles says. “I was worried I was going to have to hack into his e-mail, which would have been way easier said than done.”

“He seems generally more cautious than that,” Erica says, frowning.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and leaves it at that. He has a suspicion that Dr. Deaton knew exactly what he planned to do, and left himself logged in to make it easier on Stiles. His debt prevents him from outright showing Stiles the e-mails, but apparently it does not mean he needs to stop Stiles from looking at them himself. A curious code of morals.

The email is full of completely unrelated messages: updates from animal shelters, questions from patients, recalls on pet food. There are three that come from [unknown sender]. The first is dated the day before Derek was first sick. The second the day before Stiles’ attack in the parking lot. And the third, just hours previous.

Each one, as Deaton had said, contains a little poem.

“Haiku,” Stiles says.

“What?” Derek says.

Stiles flaps his hand and says, “It’s a Japanese form of poetry with a five – ”

“I’m aware of what a haiku is, Stiles,” Derek says. “I’m just wondering why in God’s name anybody would be sending haikus to Dr. Deaton.”

“Get in line,” Stiles says. He reads the first out loud:

 

Darkness descending

Onto the son of the cursed

Will dawn break in time?

 

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit,” Erica says. “Derek, that’s you. The son of the cursed. It’s about you being sick.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “And the second one is about me.”

 

The red sun rises

His blood is spilled; he cries out

And nobody comes

 

Stiles meditates on that for a second before delivering his opinion. “Melodramatic little fucker, isn’t he.”

“Very evocative imagery,” Allison muses. “I actually kind of like it. All the contrast between light and dark, the color red, the wordplay with ‘sun’ and ‘son’.” She gives a defensive look as Stiles arches an eyebrow at her. “What? Sometimes poetry _should_ be melodramatic. ‘Quoth the raven, nevermore’?”

“Point,” Stiles says.

Erica lets out a snort of laughter despite herself. “Okay. So he’s sending Deaton love notes about what he’s going to do.”

“Or what he’s done,” Derek says.

Stiles shakes his head. “Both of these first two arrived _before_ the events in question. The first arrived the day before you got sick, and this one arrived over the weekend, and the attack was on Monday. I think Dr. Deaton didn’t see them at first. It looks like they were flagged as spam, probably because of the ‘unknown sender’ stuff. After he realized who this guy was, I bet he went back and looked to see if the guy had tried to contact him, and found them then.”

“So let’s hear the third one,” Erica says.

Stiles clears his throat.

 

The road less traveled

The purity of a soul

Standing on the edge

 

“Oh, _that’s_ fucking helpful,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I have a feeling that these are going to be painfully obvious in retrospect but completely useless beforehand,” Stiles agrees. Still, he prints out a copy of each of them, including the sender’s information, and then shuts the computer down. The four of them depart in silence.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles sleeps restlessly, trying to tease out the meaning behind the third poem for most of the night, staring at the ceiling and silently mouthing the words. He hopes that the ‘soul’ in question is not his, and that moral questions about what he’s willing to do to protect his pack are not going to arise. When he finally does sleep, he has bad dreams, with plenty of the aforementioned evocative imagery. So it’s a rather surly and grumbly Stiles that is packed off to school the next morning.

Sheriff Stilinski has been on the phone, clearing everything so Derek can accompany him. It’s fortunate that Stiles had foreseen the fact that this might happen someday, and so Derek actually is registered as a service animal. After his hospitalization post-alpha-pack, when Derek had been allowed into his room as an ‘emotional support dog’, it had occurred to him that it wouldn’t be bad idea to make it official. A great deal of research and paperwork later, and one long-suffering evaluation of Derek by a dog behaviorist, and they had everything put together. Just in case. Stiles lives for ‘just in case’.

So once all the paperwork has been provided to the school, there aren’t any problems. Stilinski tells him that all his teachers have been notified that he’ll have the dog with him, so there shouldn’t be any surprises. Derek puts on the vest and collar with decently good grace and hops into the back of the Jeep.

For most of the morning, everything goes better than expected. Stiles and ‘Jack’ get plenty of attention, although plenty of other people give the huge wolf a wide berth. Stiles hears ‘he looks more like a wolf’ at least eight times every hour. Every time someone asks ‘what the hell do you have a service dog for?’ he has a new, clever answer. ‘To carry my backpack.’ ‘To help me pick up chicks.’ ‘To play lacrosse with me.’ And his personal favorite: ‘To answer stupid questions about why I have a service dog.’

History is especially interesting, because the teacher asks Stiles to stay behind for a minute and then asks him if he’d be willing to speak to the class about his PTSD. They’re going to be covering the disorder in some detail, she says, when they go over the period after the Vietnam War, since so many soldiers had been affected by it. She doesn’t know why Stiles has PTSD – none of the teachers were told – so it’s up to him if he’s willing to talk about it. “Just think about it for now,” she says, when Stiles hesitates. “I won’t need an answer for a while.”

After that is gym class, so by necessity he’s separated from Derek for a little while, while the class separates into teams and plays volleyball. Derek sits on the edge of the court and keeps a keen eye out for any rogue balls that might hit him.

The enforced separation, no matter how brief, coupled with the physical exertion of the game, leaves Stiles feeling somewhat edgy. He has to duck into the bathroom to change, since there are still two six-inch gashes across his abdomen held together with thick, wiry thread. It’s healing well, and he’s getting the stitches out that afternoon, but he won’t be able to let his classmates see him shirtless for weeks, and even then he’s going to need to come up with some sort of explanation for the scars.

At lunch, they claim their usual table, and all seems to be well until Jackson walks over to the table just as Stiles is getting up to visit the vending machines. He feels like caffeine is going to be a necessity if he wants to make it through the rest of the day. The vending machines aren’t supposed to have soda, but several of the upper classmen long ago bribed the people who fill it to do so with soda instead of the ‘health drinks’ it’s supposed to serve. To be fair, Stiles is pretty sure that Coke isn’t much worse than Vitamin Water.

He turns as he gets up, and then Jackson is right there, getting in his face. “What the fuck is this?” Jackson asks.

“Uh, your general lack of respect for my personal space?” Stiles asks, trying not to get panicky because this is _Jackson_ , for Christ’s sake, and if there’s one person in this entire school that he can handle, it’s Jackson.

“That,” Jackson says, pointing at Derek, “is not a fucking dog.”

Stiles looks down at Derek. Then he looks back at Jackson. “What are you going to do, cry about it?”

Jackson’s jaw sets in that stubborn expression. It looks like he might say something about werewolves, but then Danny wanders up behind him, taking in the situation with that usual calm expression of his. That expression that means ‘Jackson is being a jerk again; I’d better go make sure no violence occurs’. Stiles often wonders exactly why Danny bothers wasting his time being Jackson’s BFF.

Since Danny doesn’t know anything about werewolves, Jackson instead says, “What the fuck do you need a service dog for?”

“He screens my calls,” Stiles says. “Looks like I’m not going to accept yours.”

Jackson reaches out as if to grab him by the shoulder, but Derek is suddenly on his feet and between the two of them. It takes all of Stiles’ formidable willpower to keep his eyes from glowing crimson, and he’s not entirely sure he manages it. But he does look at Jackson and say quietly, “Don’t, Jackson. Just don’t. Not today. Don’t go there.”

Jackson’s scowl intensifies. “You can’t bring a fucking wolf to school, asshole.”

“What, are you worried that he’s going to steal your new girlfriend because he’s so much better-looking than you?” Stiles retorts, and several people nearby let out muffled snickers.

“You can’t just do whatever you want,” Jackson says. “Somebody ought to teach you that.”

“Oh, and that’s going to be you?” Stiles asks. “Have a freebie, Jackson: go home and talk to your dad. You know, the district attorney? Go cry to him. And he’ll tell you that any student is allowed to have a service animal, physical _or_ psychological, as long as all the proper paperwork is filed, and that there ain’t shit you can do about it. And yeah, before you ask, all the proper paperwork is filed. Do you think I’m fucking new?”

“I think that you’re not as fucking smart as you think you are,” Jackson says, “and somewhere, somehow, there’s something you’ve missed. And I’m going to find it.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “You have a jolly good time with that.”

Jackson takes a step back, and for a minute it looks like that might be the end of it. But then Jackson abruptly jerks forward. It’s a dick move, the kind of feint a guy does to make someone flinch.  

Stiles doesn’t flinch. He _reacts_. He’s trained for combat, drilled to defend himself against threats. On a better day, he might have been able to hold the conditioned response back, but tense and edgy as he is, there’s no chance. He moves without any shred of thought, one hand coming out in a loose fist so his knuckles jut out in front, colliding with Jackson’s throat. When Jackson staggers back, Stiles’ other hand comes around and grabs the other teenager’s shoulder like a vise, his knee hiking up into Jackson’s groin.

The third part of this martial arts trifecta that Chris taught Allison and Allison taught the pack is a hard downward elbow strike on the back of the neck, which is now nicely exposed because Jackson has doubled over. Stiles doesn’t make it that far. The first two moves take the space of a few seconds, but then Derek had jumped up on him, knocking him back and onto his ass. Scott and Danny have moved between Stiles and Jackson, the latter a little more slowly. Scott has a grim face on; Danny is too stunned to have much of an emotional reaction to what just happened.

The hard impact with the floor brings Stiles back to earth, and he realizes exactly what he just did, and that if he’d been allowed to go another moment unchecked, he could have really hurt the older teenager. Already, he can hear Scott trying to confirm if Jackson’s larynx is injured, or just his pride. “Okay, he’s okay,” Scott says, and Stiles feels some of the tension flood out of his body. He’s going into overload now, the way he did after the attack at the parking lot. Time to let someone else handle things, he decides, and presses his back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and hiding his face in his arms. He can feel Derek’s reassuring bulk between him and the world.

Nearly a full minute has passed, the buzz of conversation washing over Stiles’ ears without sinking in, when a sharp voice says, “What’s going on here?”

Harris. Of course, it would be Harris. He’s like a plague on Stiles’ school life. He keeps his face in his arms and just listens. A moment later, Jackson says, “Nothing.” His voice is ragged, but he’s talking, so clearly his windpipe wasn’t broken. Stiles supposes that’s a good thing. It’s also a good thing that Jackson isn’t about to admit that he got his ass handed to him by Stiles Stilinski in under five seconds. “We were just talking.”

“Really?” Harris asks acerbically, and Scott and Danny both immediately jump in to confirm Jackson’s story, because bro-code covers this sort of situation in detail. Then Harris says, “Jesus! What is that thing doing here?”

Stiles feels more than hears Derek’s hackles rise. Scott jumps in, saying hastily, “It’s Stiles’ service dog. He cleared it through the office and everything. His dad called and talked to Principal Finch.”

“We’ll see about that,” Harris says. “Get up, Mr. Stilinski, there’s no need to make a scene – ”

Now Stiles hears Derek growl, which he knows means that Harris was about to grab him and try to haul him to his feet. Of course, this only makes the situation worse, because Harris is protesting in an outraged tone about how the dog had growled at him and such an aggressive animal shouldn’t be on school property, and Stiles thinks abstractly that Harris is one hell of a hypocrite to be complaining about making a scene. Even so, he needs to get a handle on things, fast, so he scrapes up enough self-control to raise his head and look up. He sees Jackson, gingerly holding one hand to his throat while Danny hovers behind him somewhat nervously. His pack is gathered in a tight knot around their table; he gives a brief nod to Scott when he catches the other teenager’s eye, to indicate that he’s okay or at least getting there.

Harris sees him look up and says, “Give that leash to me, Mr. Stilinski; I’m taking this animal to the principal’s office.”

Stiles’ reaction to that statement is just as immediate and forceful as his reaction to Jackson’s feint. Derek doesn’t even have time to protest on his own. Stiles’ lip curls back, baring his teeth in an expression that would have done any wolf proud, and he snarls out, “I will see you in hell before I see you take him away from me.”

Shocked silence greets this remark. Stiles scrambles back up to his feet, grabs his backpack, and leaves the cafeteria at a brisk pace. Harris shouts after him, something sharp and angry that he completely ignores. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth it.

Despite the fact that there are eleven minutes of lunch left and he never did get his soda, he goes to his pre-calc class and pokes his head in. The teacher is sitting at the desk, grading papers. “Hey, uh, hey, Ms. Atwell,” he says. “I know I’m a little early but I just wanted to get a little studying done for today’s quiz. It was too loud in the caf. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” she says, gesturing with her pen. She gives Derek a somewhat curious look, but like all the teachers, was briefed on his sudden appearance, so says nothing about it.

Stiles sits down and opens his textbook and stares down at the page for a long minute, letting some of the tension drain out of him until he feels almost drowsy with the release. Derek lifts his head and makes a little questioning noise. “’m all right,” Stiles murmurs, and tries to focus on his math quiz and wonders exactly how much trouble he’s going to be in soon.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is somehow not at all surprised when he’s paged down to the principal’s office during his last class of the day, which is literature. He’s glad that he can rely on Lydia to take thorough notes for him, since he doubts he’ll be back. He shoulders his bag, picks up Derek’s leash, and leaves the classroom.

It’s worse than he expected – not only is Mr. Harris in the office, but his father is, too. “Hi, Dad,” Stiles says, bumping shoulders with the man. “I must really be in trouble now, huh.”

Principal Finch sighs. “Have a seat, Mr. Stilinski. You’re not in trouble. There are just a few things we need to talk about.” He waits until Stiles has sat down, with Derek obediently lying down at his feet, although his gaze is fixed on Harris. “Now, it’s no problem for you to have your service dog here,” he says, “but it can’t disrupt the education of other students.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “I absolutely agree with you.”

Finch gives him a narrow-eyed look. “Mr. Harris is concerned that your dog is aggressive.”

“No,” Stiles says, trying to be patient and sound like a reasonable human being, instead of someone who really wants to nail Harris in the solar plexus. It would be so satisfying. “My dog was performing his duties.”

“He growled at me,” Harris says, folding his arms over his chest.

“Yes,” Stiles says, “to warn you away from touching me. He didn’t bite you or physically assault you. He just growled at you.” He gestures to Derek and says, “Do you have any doubt at all that this dog could hurt you if he really wanted to?”

Finch rubs his hands over his face. “That’s not really comforting, Mr. Stilinski.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Stiles says. “You are required by disability law to allow any student with a service dog to have that dog on the premises at all times.”

“Well, what exact service does he provide?” Harris asks, his nose in the air.

“I don’t have to tell you that,” Stiles replies.

The principal sighs. “Come on, Mr. Stilinski. This isn’t a court of law and you have no need to plead the fifth amendment.”

“I’m not pleading anything. I’m just saying that I don’t have to explain myself to him, and in fact he might prefer it if I didn’t. But since you asked so nicely, okay. I have the service dog because I have post-traumatic stress disorder. Why is that? Because last winter, a psycho kidnapped me, physically assaulted and intimidated me, and then left me in the trunk of his car for two days. And he did _that_ because he was trying to get revenge on Kate Argent for burning his entire family to the ground, which she did with the help of someone in this room. Let’s see, who was that? Oh, that’s right, Mr. Harris, it was you. And it’s not too late to charge you for that crime, so maybe you should lay the fuck off me and my fucking service dog.”

Finch’s mouth is hanging open slightly. Sheriff Stilinski rubs both hands over his face. “Stiles . . .”

Harris is turning bright red with rage and embarrassment. “You – you – as I explained to your father at the time, that – that was – I had no idea what she was going to do with that information.”

“Oh, okay,” Stiles says. “Because you can just tell anybody how to start a fire that won’t look like arson and trust that they _obviously_ have the best intentions in mind, if they’re asking that. No problem.”

“Stiles,” his father says again. “Drop it. That’s between Mr. Harris and the police department, and you shouldn’t even _know_ about it.”

“How _does_ he know about it?” Harris grinds out between his teeth.

Since ‘I read all my father’s files’ is obviously only going to get more people in more trouble, Stiles says, “I heard it from Derek Hale. He had a right to all the information concerning the murder of his family, and he had a right to impart that information to anyone he chose. Which in this case was me. By the way, he thinks you’re a despicable waste of oxygen. Just so you know.”

“Regardless,” says Finch, who obviously feels that he’s out of his depth and wants to steer the conversation back onto territory he’s comfortable with, “I think it would be a good idea to have the dog evaluated by a behaviorist who can vouch that he’s not aggressive.”

Stiles bites his lip and tries not to laugh. “Okay,” he says. “I mean, they wouldn’t have certified him as a service dog if he was, but sure, if it’ll make you feel better.” He’ll call Dr. Deaton and set something up. The veterinarian will doubtlessly think that it’s hilarious.

“I think it would be in everyone’s best interest,” Finch says. “Another point of contention is your own behavior in the cafeteria,” he continues. “Specifically, what you said to Mr. Harris . . .”

Stilinski arches his eyebrows at his son. “What _did_ you say to Mr. Harris?”

Stiles’ flat gaze never leaves Mr. Harris. “I said ‘I’ll see you in Hell before I see you take my dog away,’” he says, and his father lets out a little sigh.

“I’m sure you can see why that was inappropriate . . .?” Finch asks, obviously hoping that Stiles will agree with him and not make an issue out of it.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, “absolutely. I should have said ‘I’ll see you six feet underground’. Religion has no place in schools. Separation of church and state.”

The sheriff looks at the ceiling as though praying for patience. Even Derek lets out a little sigh, but then presses his nose into Stiles’ hand to indicate that he appreciates the sentiment. Finch’s jaw is slightly open again, and Harris is still that dull shade of red. “Threatening a teacher is unacceptable,” Finch finally says. “A lot of schools would expel you for that.”

“Oh, okay,” Stiles says. “Expel me for something I said while having a traumatic episode when someone tried to take my emotional support and service animal away. I’ll take you to fucking court. And I’ll fucking win.”

Stilinski clears his throat and says, “Regardless of my son’s terrible language, which yes, I will have a word with him about, he’s correct. The whole point of having the dog here with him is because he’s not always . . . in control. During one of the episodes.”

“Well,” Mr. Harris says smugly, “if your son is really that disturbed, he shouldn’t be in school at all.”

At this, Stiles abruptly stands and turns to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” Principal Finch asks.

“I don’t have to sit here and listen while he runs his mouth off about something he knows nothing about,” Stiles says. “I’m leaving.”

“Stiles . . .” his father says, trying to placate him although he obviously wants to punch Mr. Harris in the face.

“Don’t ‘Stiles’ me, Dad. You wanna shove Mr. Harris in a trunk and leave him there for two days so he’ll know what the fuck it’s like? Go right ahead. Until that option is on the table, I’m out of here.” He turns and walks out. Derek picks up the end of his leash in his mouth and trots after him.

Stiles just walks for a little while. His body is actually trembling from rage. He wonders abstractly how he can survive rogue alphas and hunters with automatic rifles and warlocks with voodoo dolls, but then loses his shit at a petty dick of a teacher making him seem like the unreasonable one. The tension builds up until he’s out of the school and in the parking lot, and then Derek takes his sleeve in his mouth as he’s starting to get in the Jeep. The obvious message is ‘don’t drive a car right now, idiot’. So Stiles just sits down on the ground there in the lot, leaning against the front tire.

“I hate this,” he says, his throat clogged with some strange combination of fury and grief. “I _hate_ this. I can never fucking get away from it. I, I wouldn’t give up the pack for anything but sometimes I just want to go back to the way things were before Peter showed up. I want to be the spastic kid who makes smart remarks, not this traumatized fuck-up who can’t spend more than two minutes in a bathroom without panic setting in. I want to be the lame varsity benchwarmer, not the ‘boy in red’ who’s so badass that people come from out of town to try to frickin’ kill him. I’m so tired of all this bullshit.”

Derek lets out a little whine and rests his head against Stiles’ shoulder.

“This summer, after the whole thing with the alpha pack, things were _good_ for a while. I thought things were going to be okay. That I was going to be okay. But I’m not, am I? I’m never going to be okay, not one hundred percent, not ever again.”

Derek sighs, looks around to make sure that nobody is near by, and then shifts into his human form, shrugging out of the vest as he does so. “Nobody is one hundred percent okay. Not you, not me, not your dad, not even Harris. That’s not PTSD or werewolves or warlocks. That’s just . . . _life_.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, but . . .”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Derek says. “Just that . . . Jackson and Harris aren’t worth getting upset over. Just remember that they . . . they are arrogant, petty douchebags who live boring, ordinary lives. And you are going to live an _amazing_ life. It may not always be easy, or pretty, or fun. But it _will_ be amazing.”

Stiles blinks at him for a moment. “Wow,” he says. “Derek, that was really . . . eloquent.”

“What?” Derek blinks at him, then scowls and actually turns pink. “Shut up.”

Stiles bumps shoulders with him. “No, I mean it. Thanks.”

Still blushing furiously, Derek says, “Are we going home, or what?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, grinning and getting to his feet. Derek gets into the front seat, totally oblivious to the fact that most people riding in cars wear clothing. “You know, though, you’re fucked now. Because now that Harris doesn’t want you at school, if we let you stop coming, he’ll have won. Which means . . .”

“Oh, God,” Derek says, his voice full of heartfelt horror. “I’m going to have to keep going to high school.”

“Sorry, dude,” Stiles says, laughing. “But you can only blame yourself.”

“And Harris,” Derek mutters.

“Right,” Stiles says. “And Harris.”

They head back to the house. Stiles sends out a quick text to let everyone know he left school early, he’s with Derek, don’t worry. The day’s events annoy him, because he wanted to talk to Danny about getting help tracking where those e-mails came from. Obviously, that won’t be happening today. He’ll have to tackle it tomorrow. Hopefully he can corner Danny at lacrosse practice and not have to let Jackson know that they’re talking.

They’ve only been home about ten minutes, and Stiles is in the process of searching for that last can of Dr. Pepper that he knows is in the fridge somewhere, when the door opens and his father calls out, “Stiles?” in a worried tone of voice. He’s obviously seen the Jeep and knows that Stiles is home, but is afraid of what he might find. The look on his face when Stiles heads into the hallway, whole and unharmed and even looking relatively perky, is one of intense relief.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says, popping the top on the can of soda. “Sorry I stormed out like that.”

“It’s fine,” Stilinski says, hooking an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and giving him a quick hug. “Honestly, I think you did the right thing. You were about to lose your temper and although by God I wouldn’t have blamed you, it just would have made things worse in the long run.”

“What happened after I left?”

“Principal Finch and I had a long discussion about why Harris’ lack of compassion and basic understanding of student psychology makes him a really lousy teacher.”

“And?”

“He’s one year away from tenure.”

Stiles laughs, startled. “Jesus, Dad, don’t tell me that. I’ll make it my life mission to make sure he’s fired before the end of the year.”

Stilinski looks a little amused. “Why do you think I told you?”

“Point,” Stiles says. “Anything else I should know?”

“You did get a detention,” Stilinski says.

“For having a service dog?” Stiles asks.

“No,” his father says. “You’ve got a detention for saying ‘I’ll see you in Hell’ to a teacher, because apparently that’s unacceptable no matter how small-minded and petty an asshole that teacher is. I tried to get it so you wouldn’t have to serve it with Harris himself, but of course he insisted. At least I got it put on Friday so you wouldn’t have to miss lacrosse practice.”

“Gee, a detention on a Friday, just what I always wanted,” Stiles says. “How can I ever thank you enough?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” Stilinski gives him a look. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I, I think so,” Stiles says. “I mean, not . . . not one hundred percent. But Harris isn’t worth getting upset over. As long as nobody actually tries to expel me, I can handle serving a detention. It’ll be worth it to see the look on Harris’ face when the entire pack shows up and insists on having the detention with me.”

“Oh, geez,” Stilinski says, but he’s laughing. “Take photos.”

“And to be fair, I _do_ deserve the detention,” Stiles says, “because it’s not like I _didn’t_ know what I was saying to Harris. I mean, it’s all well and good to avoid expulsion by painting it like I had no idea what I was saying, but . . . yeah, I totally knew. I even knew it was wrong, it was just . . . can I get away with saying that it was the wolf?”

His father gives him another one of those looks that seems to see everything. Then his gaze flicks over to Derek, who’s leaning against the door into the kitchen, saying nothing. “Yeah, kid,” he says, “I think I’ll give you that this time.”

“Awesome. Sorry they called you down there about that bullshit.”

“I’ve been called to your principal’s office for worse reasons. I’ll make it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

As it turns out, Stiles has no trouble cornering Danny without Jackson around, because Jackson isn’t in school the next day. According to Scott, he had gone home after lunch the day before, complaining to the nurse about a ‘stomach ache’. Stiles, who knows exactly how much force he had applied behind the knee to Jackson’s groin, can’t completely blame him. He counts his blessings again that Jackson hadn’t wanted to admit what had happened. He really would have gotten suspended if a teacher had found out about the fight.

So the school day passes without incident, with Derek trotting along at his side in his little blue vest, and if Stiles gets some strange looks from people who witnessed the fight, he does his best to ignore them. He decides to approach Danny after lacrosse practice, because the older teenager always takes a while to change afterwards. Danny doesn’t fit many gay stereotypes, but he does take fashion pretty seriously. He never leaves the locker rooms without a shower and at least five minutes to fix whatever damage has been done to his hair.

Once the locker room has basically emptied out, and Stiles has changed back into his regular clothes, he finds Danny standing in front of one of the mirrors, wearing only his jeans and combing his hair. “Hey. Can we talk for a sec?”

Danny glances at him and says, “Sure.” And then, after only a beat and a glance down at where Derek is sitting patiently at Stiles’ feet, “Dude, what the hell was that yesterday?”

Stiles knew the question was coming, and he’s not happy about it, but Danny has a right to ask. He’s thought about this, and decided that a little bit of truth won’t hurt here. He’s asking Danny for a favor, after all. “Look, can I tell you something and have your word you won’t spread it around?”

“Sure,” Danny says again, and blinks at him, then gives a faint frown and repeats himself. “Yeah, sure. I’m not a gossip, you know.”

“I know.” Stiles swallows, a little convulsively. This is the first time he will tell anyone who wasn’t actually there when it happened about the previous winter. The cops at the station all knew about it; his father is the one who briefed the teachers. When things had been explained to new pack members, other people had always told that part of the story for him. “I have a service dog because I have post-traumatic stress disorder. Because I . . . last winter, I was assaulted.”

He lets that sink in for a minute, knowing how Danny is bound to interpret that word, letting him have his own version of events because that’s easier than ‘werewolves’. He sees the other teenager’s eyes widen slightly, and he stammers a little. “Geez, I, I’m sorry, I – ”

Stiles shakes his head a little. “Yeah, I know, you don’t have to find something eloquent to say to that. That’s cool.” He folds his arms over his stomach defensively, not even really aware that he’s doing it. Derek leans against his leg, a solid, reassuring weight there. “Afterwards, I, the guy put me in the trunk of his car. It took my dad two days to find me. Remember when I missed the week of school? Yeah, I didn’t have pneumonia, I had dehydration and hypothermia and also the epic screaming meemies.” He shrugs a little. “My dad enrolled me in martial arts and self-defense classes because he thought that it might, might help me feel safe. Unfortunately, all it really did was turn me into a loaded weapon without the best of control. That’s what you saw yesterday. Dude, I _know_ Jackson was just being a dick. I _know_ that he wasn’t actually going to hurt me or even take a swing at me. I just reacted instinctively. So. Now you know why I have a service dog, and yes, you are the only person in school that I’ve told outside of my circle of friends, and no, that’s not actually why I needed to talk to you.”

There’s a pause while Danny considers this. He pushes his hands through his hair, ruining all the work he just did, and lets out a breath, seeming a little relieved that he’s not going to have to find anything to say about all this. “Okay. What’s up, then?”

“Need your help with a little computer stuff. Got some free time tonight?”

Now Danny’s eyes narrow. He’s well aware that when Stiles says ‘computer stuff’ he means ‘illegal hacking’. “Doing what?”

“There’s some e-mails that a friend of mine has gotten that I’m trying to trace.”

Danny considers this for a minute. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “if you’ll do something for me in return.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Will you stop making out with Lydia whenever Jackson’s around? It really bothers him.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Let’s have a few words for how much sympathy I _don’t_ have for Jackson fuckin’ Whittemore right now.”

“Look, I know the guy is an epic douche sometimes, okay?” Danny says. “And I know he treated Lydia like shit, and she was my friend, too. Believe it or not, I had some pretty harsh words for him at the time about the way he broke up with her. But can you just suspend your disbelief long enough, pretend Jackson is a human being, and recognize the fact that he has feelings, too?”

There’s a long pause. “No,” Stiles says, and Danny laughs despite himself. “I won’t stop making out with Lydia because of Jackson’s ‘feelings’. But I will do it for you, in return for the computer help. As long as you understand that I won’t be held responsible if she finds someone else to make out with instead.”

“It won’t bother him as much if it’s not you,” Danny says. “Deal.”

Stiles shakes his head a little and says, “I’m not sure if that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult. Why the fuck do you even put up with him?”

Danny gives him a glance and gives the comb one final run through his hair. Then, seeming to decide that Stiles’ earlier honesty deserves some in return, he says, “Because he stood by me when I came out of the closet, when I tried to tell him I couldn’t be his friend anymore because he wouldn’t be popular if his best friend was a fag. He told me to go to hell and that he’d be friends with whoever he wanted to be friends with, and fuck anyone who had an opinion about it. That’s why.”

Stiles thinks this over. “Okay,” he says. “I can accept that.” He follows Danny over to his locker, where he grabs a shirt and pulls it on, careful not to mess up his hair. “It’s kind of urgent, so . . .”

“When isn’t it, in your world?” Danny rolls his eyes and sits down to put his sneakers on. Stiles waits and pulls out his phone to text the others, letting them know that he’s going back to the house with Danny, who’s going to do the computer stuff. He’ll keep them posted and meet them all back at Derek’s apartment once it’s done.

Once they’re back at his place, Stiles sets his laptop down on the kitchen table and gives Danny a copy of the three e-mails. He frowns at them and says, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just log into your friend’s email account so I can see them there?”

“Uh, easier, definitely,” Stiles says, “but it’s not going to happen.”

“So when you say these e-mails have been sent to a ‘friend of yours’ . . .”

“I’m using the term loosely,” Stiles admits. Derek gives a huff of a sigh and trots across the room to curl up on the sofa.

Danny shakes his head at him. “One of these days, dude, you’re going to have to tell me exactly why you need so much illegal hacking done in your life.”

“Look,” Stiles says, “sometimes, you know, I follow up on leads for my dad. And sometimes there’s information that he needs to get that he _can’t_ get legally. Like, let’s say that these e-mails came from someone that we are pretty sure has committed a crime. But he doesn’t have _evidence_ that the guy committed a crime. So he can’t get a warrant and do this legally. However, if information gotten through illegal means is given to the police as an anonymous tip, it’s admissible in a court of law. Because it’s not the police’s fault if it was gotten illegally. Right?”

“So you’re an anonymous tip?” Danny asks, somewhat skeptically.

“Basically, yeah,” Stiles says. “If my dad says a case is bothering him, I might sometimes look into it. Hey, you _know_ why I was asking you last winter. Because I _knew_ Gerard Argent was the one who had hit my dad with his car, but I couldn’t prove it unless I could find the car itself. I leveled with you. This is a similar situation.”

Danny looked at the text of the e-mails. “Seems kinda cryptic.”

“Yeah, the guy’s definitely a drama queen,” Stiles agrees. “I just want to know from where the e-mails have been sent, so I can maybe find it.”

“Okay,” Danny says, and starts typing. “Man, a NetZero account. I didn’t think those actually still _existed_ anymore.” He shakes his head a little. Stiles leans over his shoulder and watches what he’s doing. He’s been learning bits and pieces of the hacking craft, but in amongst everything else in his life, it’s been pushed to the background. Having Danny available to do it for him has kept him from making it into a priority. He supposes he should learn it before they all go off to college – a goal that seems about as far away as winning the Superbowl.

It takes about an hour of typing and muttering and sometimes cursing, but finally Danny says, “Okay, I’ve got the IP address. Hold on . . .” More typing, then, “Well, it’s local. It’s the IP that the Starbucks on State Street uses.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says. “Free wi-fi. That’s about as good as . . . as fuckall.”

“Sorry,” Danny says.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Stiles says. “It was a shot in the dark. I knew it might not pay off. Thanks for your help.”

They chat for a few minutes about lacrosse and their history exam coming up and why Harris is the biggest jerk ever and maybe they should egg his car, and then Danny departs. Stiles sighs and stares glumly at his laptop, at the screen that Danny left him on with the IP information. He sits there a long minute until he hears Derek get up and shift, and then arms wrap around him from behind, Derek’s chin resting on his shoulder.

“You’ll find him,” is all Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Maybe that’s the worst part. He _wants_ me to find him. This is a game. Somewhere in here, he’s left me a move. I just have to find it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, a lot happens in this chapter. We're really cooking now.
> 
> *studies outline* Uh, by the way, this is going to be long. I, uh, may have gotten carried away....?

 

After a long time staring at the information on the laptop, Stiles stands and stretches, gathers his things, and they head back out to the Jeep. The ‘no one goes out alone’ rule has been reinstated, much to everyone’s dismay, although nobody has argued. Derek’s is the best place for sleepovers, because there just isn’t enough room to sleep in a wolf pile at anyone else’s. It was tight even before they started adding members to the pack. They still sleep at Stiles’ or at Scott’s sometimes, but most often, if they’re all going to be in one place, it’s at Derek’s.

When Stiles morosely informs the pack of his lack of progress, he’s not expecting anything beyond some sympathetic comments. He’s certainly not expecting a breakthrough, but that’s what he gets, and it comes, of all people, from Boyd. The teenager looks up from where he’s proofreading an essay for his English class and says, “Can you maybe look up the transaction at Starbucks?”

“What transaction?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“Wi-fi at that Starbucks isn’t exactly free,” Boyd says. He sees Stiles blinking at him and says, “Okay, look, I know that place. It’s two blocks down from the dance studio where Lakeisha and Keelie have their lessons. Last year, since my dad was working swing shift all the time, Mom stayed at home with Trey and Will and I took the girls to dance. It wasn’t worth going all the way back home, so I would just walk down to the Starbucks and sit for an hour. It was like . . . my weekly treat to myself. I’d get a coffee and play on the internet on that junky old laptop that Dad got me for Christmas.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So?”

“So, they had a lot of trouble with people in nearby apartment buildings leeching off their wi-fi,” Boyd says, “and they started changing the password every day. They’ll only give it to you if you actually purchase something.”

“So what?” Derek asks. “People don’t pay with credit cards for a dollar cup of coffee.”

Several people let out snorts of laughter. “Dude, when was the last time you set foot in a Starbucks?” Scott asks. “Or bought anything besides a plain cup of coffee? The _cheapest_ drink on their menu has to be at least two fifty.”

Derek makes a face. “Still,” he says, “this guy pays for hotel rooms with cash. Why would he pay for coffee with a credit card?”

“He doesn’t expect us to even _know_ about these e-mails,” Lydia points out. “He has no reason to think Dr. Deaton would show them to us.”

“It’s a long-shot,” Stiles agrees, “but it’s worth a try.” The alternative, he knows, is to stake out the Starbucks. He doesn’t want to do that for several reasons. The first is that he has no idea when the warlock might show up again, and he has little things like school and lacrosse which would make it extremely difficult. Secondly, if said warlock saw him there, it would make their confrontation very public and therefore very dangerous. A lot of innocents would be in the crossfire. He needs to find a way to make that not happen, so he takes out his phone and dials his father. “Hey, Dad. Can you do me a favor?”

“Are we going to reach an agreement about egg-white omelets?” his father asks.

“What, like, how they have no flavor?” Stiles replies.

“It’ll do for a start. What do you need?”

Stiles explains the situation and asks if he can get the list of transactions from the Starbucks for each of those three days. His father hedges a little. It’s a long-shot, and technically he’s not entitled to it since the sorcerer hasn’t committed a prosecutable crime, and there’ll be a lot of information on those lists about people who aren’t involved. Stiles lets him lodge all his protests and eventually come to the conclusion that a long-shot is better than no shot. “It won’t be until tomorrow,” he says.

“That’s okay,” Stiles says. “I have a history test to study for and the last eight chapters of _A Passage to India_ to get through. Life goes on.”

“La de da,” his father agrees, and they say goodbye.

All of it will have to wait until after his detention, since he doubts Harris is going to let him work on anything productive while he’s there. He shows up less than two minutes after the last bell of the day rings and just takes a seat at one of the tables in Harris’ classroom without a word. Harris sneers at him, then swallows when Derek just _looks_ at him, not betraying any aggression but still managing to be quite menacing.

Less than two minutes after that, the rest of the pack shows up. They don’t even say anything to Harris, but just start arranging themselves at tables. Harris gives them a startled look, then snaps, “What are all of you doing in here?”

“Serving detention,” Allison says, with her usual perky smile.

“I didn’t give you a detention,” Harris says.

“Would you like us to make you?” Erica asks, and without further warning or challenge at all, pulls the bottom of her shirt up, flashing him. Stiles chokes on his own spit.

After that, Harris doesn’t seem to have much to say about them serving detention, or anything at all, for that matter. He just sits down at his desk and stares down at a lesson plan without ever moving his pen. Stiles pulls his phone into his lap and texts Erica with, ‘You know he’s gonna fap to that tonight, right?’

‘Totally worth it,’ she texts back, ‘since he knows he’ll never get any of this.’

Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing and goes back to doing his homework. He figures, given how long Harris is likely to make him stay in detention, he can make a sizable dent in it, and not have to worry about it over the weekend. He’ll have enough to do. At least over the weekend, parents are less apt to kick up a fuss about the slumber parties.

Harris keeps them until four thirty, then snaps that they can leave. Erica just gives him a coy smile as she flounces out of the room. “But I’ll be watching that dog,” he adds after Stiles.

“I wonder what it’s like,” Stiles says thoughtfully, as they head across the parking lot.

“What what’s like?” Isaac asks.

“What it’s like to have so much free time and so few problems that harping on some traumatized teenager about their service dog is a viable pastime.”

Several people let out laughter at this. Stiles decides to celebrate having lived through the week by going through the drive-through on the way home, and they buy epic amounts of food that is extremely bad for them. Even Lydia will loosen up enough to have a double-bacon cheeseburger on occasion, now that she knows the wolf will keep her fit.

He’s a little disconcerted when he comes home to find his father in the living room, with several manila folders full of paper. “Hey, that smells good,” he says, when they come in.

“It’s not for you!” Stiles says, trying to hide the bag behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Sheriff Stilinski arches an eyebrow at him. “I live here,” he says.

“But, but, work . . .”

“I came home to bring you those financial records you wanted,” Stilinski says. “You’re welcome.”

Stiles droops. He knows when he’s defeated. “Thanks, Dad,” he says, and his father ruffles his hair before taking the bag out of his hands and pulling out a cheeseburger. It’s a good thing they always order more than enough, since hungry wolves can eat as many as four burgers in one sitting. He makes a face and sits down with his own order of chicken nuggets and fries. Then he views the stack of papers. “Geez. You’re such a Luddite.”

“Those aren’t yours, you idjit,” Stilinski says. “They’re for a different case.” He holds up a jump drive and says, “This is for you.”

“Oh, cool. Thanks.” Stiles sits down and takes out his laptop. Stilinski shakes his head, gathers up his papers, and heads back out the door to work, snagging a thing of onion rings on his way by. Stiles sighs but doesn’t protest. There are three files on the drive; one for each day. Each one is an Excel spreadsheet, which he opens. “Christ, a lot of people drink Starbucks in this town,” he says. “There are _thousands_ of transactions here.”

“Well, that’s the entire day,” Lydia says, leaning over his shoulder. “Limit it by time. It’s not like he would have bought a coffee, sat around for three hours, and then sent an e-mail.”

“He could have come back later, or even used their wi-fi from home if he lives close enough; Boyd said they had a problem with the nearby apartments – ” Stiles cuts himself off and forces himself to be rational. Start with the most likely possibilities. Occam’s Razor applies here. The most likely thing for the sorcerer to do would be to come in, buy a coffee, sit down, and send the e-mail. There’s no use panicking over other options unless this one doesn’t pan out. “Okay.”

He narrows down each file to the hour before the corresponding e-mail was sent. It’s still hundreds of names, so he sorts them alphabetically. “Theoretically, he should appear on all three lists,” he says. He e-mails one list to Derek and one to Scott, so they can pull them up on their phones and give him a hand. It’s painstaking work, going through the lists for duplicates.

There are a lot of names that appear both of the first two lists, which isn’t actually that surprising. Both of the first two e-mails were sent on a Sunday afternoon. There are plenty of people who stop in a coffee shop around the same time every week, on their way to or from work. The newest e-mail, however, was sent on a Tuesday evening. Only a few people also appear on that list as well. Stiles marks down their names and keeps going, hoping he doesn’t end up with more than half a dozen people to research.

But in the end, there’s only one, because he stumbles upon the name ‘Sebastian Stone’ and it strikes a chord with him. “I know that name,” he says, rubbing both hands over his face. It’s the kind of name you don’t forget. “God, why do I know that name?”

“Was it in one of the books you were reading?” Derek asks.

“No, I don’t . . .” Stiles stands up suddenly and jogs out of the room. He grabs the folder of information that his father had gotten him on Dr. Deaton and comes back downstairs, flipping through it. “Ah! Found it! Okay, so one time Dr. Deaton ran away from home, this was when he was fifteen, not long before he got his shit together. There was a missing persons report filed, and it says here ‘Last seen in the company of Sebastian Stone, foster brother, age seventeen’.”

“That sounds like our guy, then,” Allison says.

Scott is looking at the folder in distaste. “Why do you have that?”

“Because I don’t want to _die_ , Scott,” Stiles says, losing his temper. “And I don’t want any of you to die, either. You didn’t object when I pulled police reports on Kali or hacked Gerard’s bank account. Get off the God damned judgment train. Nobody here boarded with you.”

“Kali and Gerard were enemies,” Scott retorts. “Dr. Deaton is a friend. He saved Derek’s _life_. And you pulled up all this stuff about his private life which was _none_ of your business.”

“Yeah, and because I did that, now I know the name of the actual enemy and I can pull up stuff about _his_ private life which is none of my business,” Stiles snaps back. The rest of the pack is shifting uncomfortably, uneasy with the sudden tension descending into the room. “I never pretended to be a God damned angel of morality, and you knew that when you accepted me as your alpha. You’ve known me longer than anyone in this room. You were there when I bribed the janitor not to tell my dad that he’d caught us on the roof trying pot. You were there when I started an entire _business_ of writing papers for college students to buy the Jeep. You were there when I said, ‘hey there’s a body in the woods, let’s go ace out my dad and find it first’. You’ve never complained about my lack of morals when they benefitted you. You _know_ me, so don’t pull this goody two-shoes _bullshit_ when there is someone in town trying to _kill us_. You want to make an issue out of this, okay, we can make an issue out of it, but if you don’t then _back the fuck down_.”

Scott looks away, his jaw tight and angry, fists clenched at his sides. He nods, once, but then says, “Okay. Fine. But don’t act all surprised that I’m upset about this. Because you know me, too.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says wearily, the tension leaking away, leaving him drained and miserable. Nothing like a good dose of his wholesome, upstanding best friend to make him feel like the world’s worst sociopath. “Yeah, I know you.”

Silence sits for several long moments before Derek clears his throat and says, “So, Sebastian Stone. What do we know about him?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “We’re going to do a broad sweep for information. Allison, I want you to call your dad, see if he’s heard the name. I’m going to text Justin.” He types in a few quick commands to his computer and says, “Okay, there are only nine Sebastian Stones in the United States. I’ll see if my dad can dig anything up. We’ve also got his credit card information, so we can run that and see what comes up. That’s the game plan.”

He sends a text to his father to give him the information, and is peripherally aware of Allison on the phone with her father while he types out a message to Justin.

He receives a reply almost immediately this time, which reads, ‘Holy shit, dude. What are you doing tangling with Stone?’

Stiles is extremely glad that nobody is looking over his shoulder to see that message. He types back, ‘I’m not. He’s decided to tangle with me.’

This time there’s a long pause. ‘I won’t lie, man. Stone is a serious A-lister warlock with big time power.’

‘That much I’ve already gathered. Do you know any details?’

‘Sorry, no. He’s more of a name and a reputation than anything else. But I’ll ask the others and see if I can find anything out.’

Stiles sighs and tucks his phone away. He gives Allison a questioning look, but her father’s reaction was much the same as Justin’s. He’s heard of Stone, but doesn’t know much about him. Unlike Justin, he doesn’t want to ask around, because he doesn’t want to draw attention to Beacon Hills. Stiles appreciates the sentiment. Until his father gets him some actual information, he’s out of luck.

He’s feeling restless, so he goes into the kitchen to make dinner. The others hang out in the living room, playing video games and cheering each other on. That’s something else he has to think about. The full moon will be happening soon. He supposes that they’d be safe enough in their warehouse, but wishes there was an easier solution.

Without much else to do, he badgers everyone into doing their homework, so they won’t have it hanging over their heads in case the weekend gets exciting or dangerous. It leads to a fairly quiet evening, although he constantly has to keep Erica on task. School work is not her forte. He suspects that whenever he leaves the room, she starts copying off Isaac, but doesn’t actually care that much as long as the work gets done.

They drift off to bed in twos and threes. Stiles lies in the center of the wolf pile and stares at the ceiling, restless and distracted. The waiting is the hardest part. Eventually, he drifts off, but for the first time in months, he dreams about the night he killed Peter. He dreams about holding the syringe in his hand, about pushing down the plunger, but when he looks up, it’s not Peter anymore; he’s shooting the poison into himself. He wakes with a start.

There’s obviously no point in trying to go back to sleep after _that_ nightmare, so he crawls out of bed and goes downstairs. The house is mostly dark and quiet, but there’s a light on in the living room. He walks in to find Scott on the sofa, watching SNL reruns with the volume turned down low. Scott looks up at him, then away. Stiles sits down on the sofa next to him and they both stare at the television for a minute.

“I’m scared,” Stiles finally says, pulling his knees to his chest. “You’re not _wrong_ , you know. About the sort of person I can be. That sort of . . . ends-justify-the-means attitude. There are lines I won’t cross, but . . . it feels like every time something like that happens, that line gets pushed a little further out. And that eventually I _will_ do something unforgivable.”

“Are you thinking about that poem?” Scott asks. “That ‘purity of a soul on the edge’ thing?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“Me too,” Scott says.

Stiles hugs himself a little tighter. “What do you think . . . if our positions had been reversed, what would you have done? I mean, back last winter. If you were the one who had found Peter in the Argent’s basement.”

Scott lets out a breath. “I don’t know, man. I know why you killed him and I don’t think you were wrong. Maybe that’s the sort of thing you can never know about yourself until it actually happens. I think I could kill someone . . . if it were to protect Allison, or to protect you. But . . . I don’t know that I could have done it like that. Cold.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I guess maybe I should just trust you to be my Jiminy Cricket and try not to freak out so much.”

Scott punches him in the shoulder. “I’m way cooler than Jiminy Cricket.”

“Okay, pal, out of all the things you are, ‘cool’ is not on the list,” Stiles says, and Scott laughs despite himself. “Look . . . thanks. For being willing to call me out. I’m not saying that I’m going to agree with you or back down. Or even that I’ll always think you’re right. But somebody has to tell when I’m getting too close to the line. So thanks.”

“Whatever, jerk,” Scott says, embarrassed. “You say that like I’m white as snow.”

“You’re not perfect,” Stiles says, “but you’re _decent_. And sometimes I think I’m going to need a reminder to be decent.”

This only embarrasses Scott more, so he just turns the volume up on the TV without saying anything, and they’re doing a particularly funny segment, so before long both of them are laughing. Stiles falls asleep on the couch and wakes up several hours later to find himself covered with a blanket and even tucked in. Damn Scott and his decency anyway.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Stiles wakes on the sofa, the others are up; he can hear them in the kitchen, so he must have slept fairly late. He pushes himself off the sofa, uses the bathroom, and goes in search of coffee. It’s about eleven o’clock in the morning. He greets all his wolves and gets something to drink. Everyone is tense and edgy, and Stiles knows he simply can’t keep them all cooped up inside all day. It’s a gorgeous autumn day, and it’s getting close to the full moon.

He still hasn’t heard from any of his contacts, so there’s no reason to stay in. So he gets dressed and says, “C’mon, guys, let’s go out in the woods for a bit,” and the relief in the room is practically palpable. They climb the fence at the back of the yard and run for a bit, then organize an Ultimate Frisbee game.

It’s three o’clock before he gets a text from his father saying he’s compiled all the information he can find, does he want to come by the station or should he just bring it home with him in the evening? Stiles opts to go by the station and collect it. They split into two groups of four again. He thinks a pack of eight is a good number. Even, easy to split up. Half of them head back to Stiles’ while the other half head to the station.

It’s not a long trip, in any case. His father is dealing with a gang of college-age delinquents who have been vandalizing downtown shops for the past three weeks, and he doesn’t really have much time. He just gives Stiles a stack of papers and another jump drive and says, “Be careful,” before going back to his job. Stiles drives back to Derek’s and sits down with the life and times of Sebastian Stone.

Like Dr. Deaton, it’s a sad story, but a much more violent one. At the age of six, his father murdered his mother and then turned the gun on himself. Sebastian sustained a gunshot wound to the stomach during the incident, but was saved at the hospital. His two younger siblings were not as lucky. His father actually did survive his self-inflicted gunshot wound, but went into a coma that lasted until he died eleven years later. Sebastian was put in foster care and, like Deaton, was bounced from home to home.

Knowing that Stone is the actual enemy, Sheriff Stilinski has apparently dug a little deeper into his history than he did with Deaton. There are a few reports from CPS caseworkers included in the file, stating that Sebastian was a ‘quiet child’. The language is clean and professional, but Stiles gets the impression that everyone involved was simply creeped out by him. He’s moved several times because other people in the home suffered ‘accidents’. A little sister falls down the stairs. A family dog dies after ingesting rat poison. A mother’s supply of medication goes missing, nearly causing her to suffer cardiac arrest.

None of these incidents are ever tied directly to Sebastian, but it sets up a disturbing pattern. He also changes caseworkers several times. Stiles isn’t sure if that’s normal or not, and out of curiosity, gets on Google and starts looking up the names. It takes some intense searching, but he finds that two of his caseworkers died – one in a car accident and the other of an aneurysm. Both died not long after one of the other accidents. Most disturbing of all, the first was when Sebastian was only eight years old.

He runs away from foster homes three times. The third time is when he’s fourteen, and it takes them over a month to find him. He starts blowing through foster homes in a matter of days, and is eventually placed in a juvenile detention facility for drug use. He spends two years there. When he leaves, he’s placed in his last foster home, that of Jim and Judy Saunders. And there he stays.

Stiles checks the dates. Stone was put in that foster home a month after Deaton, and for some reason chose to stay there. Since having a foster brother he seems to actually like is the only thing that has changed, Stiles assumes that Deaton is the reason. But then, six months later, both Deaton and Stone leave that home.

Deaton is found three days later, according to his own files, and goes on to be homed with the veterinarian who helped him change his life. But Stone never turns up again.

That’s it for the CPS files and the police reports. Since that time, Stone has had no scrapes with the law, and there isn’t a lot of other information. Stiles pushes his hands through his hair and starts going through the credit card records. It’s a new card, opened only about four months previous. There aren’t any unusual purchases on it, and all of them are in Beacon Hills. That’s creepy. It means that Stone was in town, watching them, for at least a month before he did anything.

Stiles takes a map of Beacon Hills and hangs it on Derek’s wall with thumbtacks. He circles the grocery store, the gas station, the electronics store, the pharmacy, where Stone has been making purchases. It narrows down the warlock’s probable location to about a four block radius.

“Okay, boys and girls,” he says, dropping a gigantic stack of newspapers onto the table. Thank God that his father is old-fashioned enough to read actual newspapers. And also, lazy enough that he never bothers to take them to the recycling plant the way he always means to. “Here is today’s project.”

“This looks like a new definition of fun,” Lydia says.

“Well, you know me,” Stiles says. “Stone first used his credit card in our sweet city of Beacon Hills on July eighth. I’ve narrowed down his location. So what we’re going to do is go through the real estate section of the classifieds to look for houses or apartments inside that radius that were available in late June, early July, but then unavailable later in August.” He starts tossing out markers to everyone. “Set to.”

It takes about an hour to narrow it down to two possibilities. One is a small house in a residential neighborhood. The other is the first two floors of an office building. They seem equally likely, but Stiles is leaning towards the office building. He just has this gut feeling that someone who did so poorly in homes as a child wouldn’t want to live in a cute two-story with a white picket fence.

By this time, it’s getting late, and he decides to wait until the next day. Much of the literature he has read suggests that warlocks are stronger at night. Stone seems to be particularly nocturnal. Looking through his credit card records, there isn’t a single purchase before noon, and the vast majority of them take place after six PM. So Stiles makes popcorn and they settle down with an Avengers movie marathon. Between Iron Man and Thor, an idea strikes him. He excuses himself and dials Dr. Deaton’s number. He greets him courteously, not at all upset about being bothered on a Saturday night.

“I have a question for you,” Stiles says, “and if you can’t answer it that’s fine, just tell me that. If I were to be planning to confront a sorcerer on his home turf, would it be helpful to make a circle of mountain ash around the building before I entered?”

There’s a brief hesitation, and then Dr. Deaton says, calmly, “No. A sorcerer would still be able to perform spells within the circle, so if you were inside it with him, he would still be able to cast on you. If you were outside and he were inside it, then yes, it would keep you protect from his magic.”

“Okey dokey,” Stiles says. “Thanks for the intel.”

There goes that idea. He continues to ponder as they watch the movie, and begins to wonder what, exactly, his plan should be. What are they going to do to Stone once they find him? Will they be able to convince him to leave town? To reverse whatever spell he’s done that affects the pack bond? Will threatening his life work again, or will they have to kill him?

So far, despite his formidable reputation, they’ve mostly been able to deal with opponents without actually killing them. Peter is the notable exception. The death of Kali might have been widely rumored to have been perpetrated by his pack, but that isn’t true. The hunters that have died on his territory, without exception, were killed either by Peter or by members of the alpha pack.

Two packs have tried to take his territory, one with an alpha and one a group of betas that wanted to kill him to gain an alpha. While it’s true that Stiles and his pack gave them a fair bit more than bloody noses, nobody was actually killed that he knows of.

But the problem here is that those werewolves could be reasoned with. They weren’t insane like Peter or sociopathic like Kali. They were able to look at Stiles and his pack, conduct a risk: reward assessment, and beat feet when it became clear that winning would carry too great a price. Sebastian Stone seems to be someone else that he will not be able to reason with. He’s in this for the game, for the fun. He won’t leave until it’s become clear that he’s lost. And so far, Stiles has nothing with which he can force his hand.

He calls Dr. Deaton again. “Magical oaths: real or not real?”

“Real,” Deaton says. “If a sorcerer swears something on his power, breaking that oath can cripple him.”

“Are there ways to strip away a sorcerer’s power?”

There’s a slight hesitation. Then Dr. Deaton says, “I’m sorry; that’s one I can’t answer.”

“’Kay,” Stiles says, taking this as a yes. He hangs up and rethinks his strategy. Maybe it would be better to try to go to the apartment while Stone isn’t there. If they can find whatever he’s using to manipulate the pack bond, they could end the spell without having to confront them directly. It’s an appealing idea, but he suspects it won’t work. Stone had turned up when they came to his hotel; he’ll probably know the instant they set foot on his territory again. One way or another, they’ll come into contact with him.

So if they go while he’s theoretically asleep, if they’re quiet and stealthy, it might be possible to get him inside a circle of ash. Then they might be able to extort some sort of promise about leaving town. Magic won’t go through a circle. But bullets and arrows will.

Sleep isn’t even an option. He’s up all night, searching public records to find a blueprint of the office and research in his magic books about the sort of phrasing that would be used in a magically binding promise. He doesn’t want to encounter any of the ‘you didn’t say Simon says’ bullshit that magic seems to be rife with. He divides their remaining mountain ash into little Zip-Lock bags and wakes everyone at dawn.

The office building is one of the older parts of town, and a lot of the buildings around it are empty. Stiles becomes even more certain that this is the right place. He doesn’t want to kick the door down if he doesn’t have to, but it takes him almost ten minutes to jimmy it with a credit card and a butter knife. He’s starting to think they’ll have to look for a window before it finally opens. Fortunately, no one else is around.

The first floor of the offices are completely empty except for a few pieces of furniture. There’s a desk in the main room, and then two back rooms, one of which has another desk and two rickety chairs, the other of which has a conference table and no chairs at all. Everything is coated with a thin layer of dust except the floor.

Towards the back, there’s a narrow staircase. Stiles leaves Boyd and Erica downstairs, and designates Isaac and Lydia as exit guards: one at the front and one at a door that leads out into the alley. Derek and Scott pad up the stairs in their wolf forms, while Allison plays rear guard. He eases the door to the second floor open and they edge inside.

It looks much like the hotel room, although marginally better organized. Parts of the apartment are obviously being used for purposes other than magic. There are dirty dishes in the sink, and a television with a DVD player and an armchair in one corner. But at the center of the room, there’s a card table with what looks like a spiderweb made out of red string sitting on it. Stiles takes a few steps closer. The web is strung up between several nails. Attached to each one is a photograph of a pack member. His own photograph is pinned down at the center. More representational magic. And the cause of the disruption to the pack bond is easy to see. There’s more of that black goo, although it’s a little more solid this time, looking almost like mold or a fungus. It appears to be growing on the web itself, gnawing away at the strands that connect them all.

The entire thing is nailed down to a piece of wood, and it looks a little bulky to try to get it down the stairs without anyone noticing it. Stiles snaps a quick photograph and turns away from it for the moment. He gestures towards the hallway. Allison nods and goes down, her bow held at the ready. She opens the door to the bathroom and signals that it’s empty. Then the bedroom, also empty.

“Not here,” Stiles says, and lets out a breath. It makes things easier for the moment, but in the long-run, it leaves the ball in Stone’s court, which is where Stiles absolutely does not want it. He’s not very good at playing defense. They could stake the place out, wait for him to come back. He wonders about making a circle of mountain ash just inside the room, if they could trick him into stepping into it. It seems unlikely.

He goes back over to the web and gently touches a string. An unpleasant feeling shudders through him, like someone had walked over his grave. He sees the others flinch, too. But theoretically, they should be able to purify this and end the spell the same way that Deaton had purified the voodoo doll.

“It is a masterpiece, isn’t it,” Sebastian’s voice says. Like before, he comes from nowhere, but this time, in the light of the apartment, they can see him clearly. He looks so nondescript that Stiles is strangely disappointed. Medium height, medium build, he seems to be medium everything. His hair is black, cut in a typical men’s style with bangs swept to one side. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“I like it,” Stiles agrees. “Very avant garde.” He’s aware of both Scott and Derek growling, but it’s peripheral, unimportant. Stone is here for him. He’ll view the wolves as an extension of Stiles’ power. “Not so sure about the photos, though. They seem a little tacky.”

“A lock of each pack member’s hair would have worked better,” Stone agrees. “With that, I could have destroyed your pack entirely.”

“Gee, it’s a good thing that none of us have seen the barber lately,” Stiles quips. “I bet he’s on your payroll.” He looks over his shoulder at Allison and says, “I guess you gals were right about me growing out my hair all along.”

“Happy to be of service,” Allison says, her arm never trembles as she keeps the arrow trained on Stone.

“So!” Stone says. “What is your plan? I assume you do have a plan.”

“Well, my plan is for you to swear an oath on your power to leave Beacon Hills, never return, and never lay a magical, physical, verbal, et cetera, finger on my pack ever again,” Stiles says. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but sometimes I just play by ear. What do you think would be most threatening in this situation? Thumbscrews? That’s what I’m leaning towards now.”

“Very intimidating,” Stone says. “And you did find me here, which is, of course, impressive. But there’s an angle you haven’t considered yet.” He jerks his wrist a little, and a knife slides out of his sleeve and into his hand. It’s not a particularly scary-looking knife, only about four inches long, but he doesn’t brandish it towards Stiles. Instead, he slides it underneath one strand of red thread and presses the edge of the blade against it.

Stiles _feels_ that pressure. It’s like someone is applying a choke hold to him. He has to remind himself to breathe. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Stone grins at him, a grin that’s all tooth, despite the lack of wolf underneath the skin. “And how will you stop me?”

Stiles isn’t aware of the decision to draw his .38; it’s just suddenly in his hand and pointed right at Stone’s chest. His aim is good, but not perfect, and he would prefer to have a more solid target than to attempt a headshot. “I could just shoot you.”

“You could,” Stone agrees, “but you should know that I’ve secured documents that will be released in the event of my untimely demise. You’re heavily implicated. I imagine that would reflect very poorly on your father, would it not?”

“Only if they find your body,” Stiles says.

Stone laughs outright at that. “Touché,” he says, but then leans across the web, right in Stiles’ face. “But would you? _Would_ you? When you still have nightmares about killing Peter Hale?”

Stiles blanches and takes a step back automatically. But before any smart retort can come to his lips, Stone is knocked off his feet by a mass of dark, snarling fur. Derek has been using the time during their little chat to circle low around the table, and at that, he lunged forward. Stone hits the ground, but there’s a bright flash of power, almost ultraviolent light, and he’s flung backwards. The sorcerer gets to his feet, and Stiles hears the twang of Allison’s bow.

He tunes it out because he _has_ to tune it out, because he has to deal with the web. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out the Sharpie that he was circling real estate ads with the previous day. It’s a good thing he hadn’t bothered to change clothes. Then he draws a circle on the card table around the piece of wood. It’s not as good as a salt circle or a copper circle, according to his reading, but it’s got to be better than nothing. It’s going to work because it _has_ to work. He grabs his phone out of his other pocket and plays the recording of Dr. Deaton’s voice as he purified the doll.

Stone reacts as though he had been struck by lightning. His head jerks up and around, but Stiles barely notices. He places the tips of his fingers on the circle and starts reciting the words along with Deaton. He focuses all his thought, all his willpower, all his _belief_ , into the circle. He says the words over and over again, ignoring the snarling, the crashes, the cries of pain, that are going on around him.

There’s another flash of light, this one a brilliant crimson, and Stiles is flung backwards and away from the circle. He hits the wall hard, and everything goes mercifully dark.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

 

It would be easy for Stiles to say he has the worst headache of his life, given what feels like a stampede of horses trampling his cerebellum. But as someone who has spent two days in the trunk of a car and endured fairly severe wolfsbane poisoning, it actually isn’t. It’s close, though. When he opens his eyes, everything swirls and swoops around him. He feels kind of nauseous.

“Hey.” It’s Derek’s low rumble. Stiles blinks at him, trying to make his vision focus. “Don’t try to move. You hit your head pretty hard.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and manages to say, “Tell me that for once I’m not in the fucking hospital.”

“No,” Derek says, “although if you’d taken five more minutes to wake up, you would’ve been on your way.”

“Oh.” Stiles thinks about this. It’s difficult. “Bully for me, then.” He tries to sit up, and another wave of nausea sweeps over him. “Oh, God. What happened?” He’s trying to take in his surroundings now. He’s lying on his back on a thin carpet. “Fuck, are we still at Stone’s?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “We’ve been trying to wake you for about five minutes now.”

“Hey.” Stiles reaches up with one fumbling hand and tries to give Derek a reassuring pat on the cheek. He ends up kind of groping at his nose and then letting his hand thud back to the floor. The move makes him nauseous again, but he tries to reassure Derek that he’s okay. His lupa is panicking, and that’s never good – but then he realizes that he can _feel_ Derek’s panic, that the pack bond has been restored. He sits up, shooting upwards, and says, “It worked?”

“Uh . . . sort of?” Scott says, from his side of the room. “I mean, you didn’t so much purify that thing as perform a nuclear strike on it, but it seems to have done the trick.”

“Shit.” Stiles looks over at the web – or the remnants of it. It’s blackened and charred. Most of the strings are broken, and the photographs unrecognizable. The nails holding it together are bent and twisted, and the board is split in half. “That’s not really what I was trying to do . . . but at least it worked. Where’s Stone?”

“He took off,” Allison says. “He was just toying with us – batting my arrows out of the air, using his magic to create illusions – once he got Scott and Derek to collide with each other, which would have been hilarious under other circumstances. But then you did _that_ , and he went flying just as hard as you did. He looked winded, hurt, and all three of us went after him at once – ”

“But that asshole jumped out the window and then he was just fucking _gone_ ,” Scott concludes grimly.

“Shit.” Stiles rubs both hands over his face. “Well, it didn’t exactly go as planned, but at least we managed to get rid of this piece of shit.”

“He can just make another,” Derek growls.

“He won’t,” Stiles says. “It’s a game, remember? Where’s the fun in playing the same trick twice? Now we just have to worry about the purity of a soul on the edge, whatever the fuck that means.”

Derek sighs. Then he gets an arm underneath Stiles and gets him back on his feet. Stiles is steadying out now; the pain has receded to manageable levels and the nausea is gone. He’s exhausted, though. Flat-out exhausted like he just ran a marathon, and suddenly starving. He wonders if this is how the wolves feel after healing a severe injury. All he wants to do is eat and sleep.

His wolves clearly know as much, as they are now inclined to fuss. They haul the remains of the web down to the Jeep and then head back to Derek’s apartment, where Stiles is absolutely not allowed in the kitchen. He’s put on the sofa and told by several snarling wolves to stay there. He sighs and obeys. Despite the fact that it’s barely even nine o’clock in the morning, they start making sandwiches. Stiles eats two ham and cheese and then turkey with tomato and avocado before falling asleep.

He wakes up to a long series of text messages from Justin. ‘Ok, so, I talked to the guys and nobody here knows much about Stone specifically. But I compiled a list of shit you should know when fighting a sorcerer. Here it comes.

Don’t look one in the eyes

Don’t let them have anything that belongs to you

Or blood or hair or whatever

Don’t even let them have a picture of you if you can help it

Magic works best line-of-sight, so if he wants to do anything too harsh he’d have to be close to you

(unless he has your hair or some shit)

try to get protective charms if you can

then he can affect things around you but he can’t directly affect you

Rindi’s gonna send you an e-mail with some places you can get some

There’s some herb gunk he knows about that’ll help you see through illusions

Mei says sorcerers in China have been known to summon demons (not like religious Satan-style demons, but like monster type demons, I dunno much about Chinese mythology)

They’ll act like they can read your mind, but don’t let that fool you, they can’t do that

But some of them can deal in dreams, there’s magic that lets you see someone else’s dreams or even send them a dream or appear in their dreams’

 

The last line of the text is, ‘That’s all I’ve got for now. Keep me posted. I’d say give me a shout if shit really hits the fan but we’re doing a trial in Africa right now so I couldn’t make it there. Peace.’

Stiles relates all of this to the others, who find it interesting, and then gets Ravinder’s e-mail. The closest place he knows of where they could get legitimate protection charms (presuming that they don’t want to just ask Dr. Deaton for them) is in Los Angeles. Stiles looks at the clock. It’s after three; he slept over six hours. Not enough time for them to get to LA and back if they want to get any sleep before school tomorrow. Unfortunately, Ravinder is clear that in order to get powerful ones, each person should be present when they are made so they can be personalized. So it isn’t as simple as sending Derek to pick up a batch of them.

After a few minutes to consider, he calls Dr. Deaton. “Let me know if I’m bothering you,” he says.

He can practically _hear_ Dr. Deaton’s smile. “Like I said, I’ll do anything I can to help. What’s on your mind?”

“A friend has suggested getting protection charms. Would it be worth it?”

Deaton hms for a minute. “It certainly couldn’t hurt,” he says. “It would at least put some limits on what a warlock could do to you, particularly from a distance.”

“Yeah, my friend said that he would basically be limited to affecting the world around us, instead of affecting us specifically. And since our surroundings change rapidly, he’d have to actually be near us to pull off anything effective. Does that sound accurate?”

“Yes, that’s fairly accurate.”

“Cool. Do you have time tomorrow that I could come see you about something?”

“It would have to be after my office hours in the evening.”

“That’s cool,” Stiles says. “I have school. Six o’clock okay?” he asks. Deaton says that’s fine, so they say good bye and hang up. “Okay, kids,” Stiles says, “we’re going to the City of Angels.”

Half the people in the room immediately look at their watches. “We won’t make it back ‘til _really_ late,” Erica says. “I’ve been to LA a bunch of times for testing and stuff. It’s not exactly around the corner. We’re talking one, two AM late.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “But Ravinder recommends protection charms and Deaton confirms it. If we miss out on a few hours of sleep, that’s a price I will gladly pay to make sure none of us come down with the black plague again.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The trip to Los Angeles is a somewhat enlightening experience. Stiles has never been in Amber Moon, the tiny occult shop in Beacon Hills, so he’s not sure what to expect. He follows Ravinder’s directions to a place downtown which is simply called Harvest. It looks almost like an arts and crafts store, with all the thread, beads, and paint. Derek looks around in particular interest.

But there’s also an entire section that just has bins of different herbs and little bottles filled with liquids of different colors, rows of feathers and stones, and then bizarrely mundane things like measuring spoons and sewing machines. Stiles shakes his head a little and goes up to the counter with the pack in tow. It’s late, but the store has a little sign on the front that says they’re open until midnight, and there’s still plenty of business.

Stiles checks the email that Ravinder sent him, and says, “I’m looking for Rebekah.”

The woman at the counter gives him a cheery smile and says, “All the way in the back, there’ll be a little counter with a sign above it that says ‘workings’.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. They go to the back and find the counter as advertised. Rebekah is an elderly woman on the short side, with a sharp gaze and nimble hands. Stiles tells her that they each need a protection spell. She asks each one of them a series of questions, things he never would have thought of and in some cases takes a little while to figure out: what their astrological sign is, how many siblings they have and their birth order (including any that have died, she cautions, so Derek says ‘one older, two younger, all deceased’ and now Stiles knows exactly what Derek lost in the Hale house fire, which makes him want to cry a little), and whether or not they’re virgins (a question which nearly ends in disaster as Erica starts trying to figure out who Derek has possibly had sex with, and Stiles has to shut her down fast).

Then she asks for a drop of each their blood. Stiles agrees, but only if she’ll do the spell at the counter so they can watch, in order to make sure their blood doesn’t go anywhere else. Rebekah gives him a keen smile. “Know a little something about magic, do you, boy,” she says.

“More like ‘know a little something about rampant paranoia’,” Stiles tells her. She laughs and agrees. Stiles watches the process in interest as she takes out little glass bottles barely the size of a thimble, eight of them all in a row. She adds in metal shavings, tiny bits of herbs, and little shreds of feather. “Each one is different?” he says, watching her work.

“Mm hm,” she says. “To represent that which it protects. The feathers come from different birds – falcon,” she says, giving a nod towards Derek, “swan,” with a nod to Lydia, “or magpie,” she adds, her eyes twinkling, with a nod to Stiles himself. “And the metal is different as well: silver, bronze, gold, et cetera.”

Once she has all of those complete, she gives each of them a pin. They prick their fingers and each add a drop of blood to their own tiny vial. She takes each one between clasped hands and chants quietly for a minute before stringing it on a black cord and handing it to its respective owner. The entire thing, start to finish, has taken about ten minutes per vial, so they’ve been standing at the counter nearly an hour and a half.

“How much?” Derek asks. Several people choke as she quotes them the price – two hundred dollars each, for a grand total of $1600 – but Derek forks over the credit card without flinching. There’s a spot for gratuity, and Stiles sees him add another five hundred dollars in. Derek takes protection seriously. Rebekah thanks them and tells them to come back any time.

One downside to having eight members in the pack – beside the extra expense – is that they now need two cars to get anywhere. Stiles has wondered sometimes about how uncool a van would be. He supposes that an SUV would work, if a few of the wolves were willing to ride in their shifted forms. For now, they’ve taken both his and Allison’s cars. He’s too wired to be sleepy, but the others have to stop twice and change drivers. They get back to Beacon Hills in time to have a few hours of sleep before school. Stiles doesn’t bother. It’s easier for him to just stay up than it would be to try to get up after a brief nap. Once he’s asleep, he’ll stay that way.

Jackson is back in school, and Stiles half-expects there to be an incident. But the teenager ignores him. He looks a little under the weather, pale and tired, with circles smudged under his eyes. Stiles can’t feel sorry for him at all. Harris is being his usual charming self. Stiles keeps seeing him when he turns corners, and he somehow manages to be in the cafeteria during Stiles’ lunch period. “C’mon, now, this is fucking harassment,” Stiles growls underneath his breath. He thinks about making an issue of it, but decides it just isn’t worth it.

After lacrosse practice, Stiles grabs a quick shower and examines the wounds. The stitches are out, leaving two fat, healing scars across his abdomen. They neatly criss-cross the faded ones he got from Kali’s claws during the summer. He lets out a slight sigh. “I look like I have a fucking tic-tac-toe board on my stomach,” he says to Derek, who chuffs at him and shakes his head.

Scott is bitching because he can’t find his Claddagh ring, the one Allison gave him, and Stiles has to drop everything to help him look for it. “She’s gonna kill me,” he whines.

“It’ll turn up, it’s probably in the depths of your bag,” Stiles says. “Hey, I’ve got to swing by Deaton’s this evening. You wanna come with?”

“Nah, Allison wanted help studying for her French test,” Scott says.

Stiles bites back a grin. Allison is already fluent in French, to the point where she could go to France and have discussions in French with French people. Stiles doesn’t know why they persist on using the ‘study’ euphemism when absolutely everybody knows they’re having sex. “Godspeed,” he says solemnly. “I’ll see you later.”

With the web destroyed and the pack bond restored, Stiles has called off the ‘everyone sticks together all the time’ rule and reduced it to the buddy rule. Staying in pairs is easier than trying to have everyone over at once. So Allison and Scott go over to his place, Isaac is staying at Boyd’s, and Lydia is going to sleep at Erica’s.

“Are you sure you want to go see Deaton tonight?” Derek asks, as they head out to the Jeep that evening. “You look tired.”

“I am tired,” Stiles says, “but I don’t see that changing any time soon.” When Derek scowls at him, he lifts his hands in surrender and says, “I’ve already done all my homework. I will come home afterwards and go straight to sleep. Deal?”

Derek scowls at him and says, “Fine.” They drive to the clinic in silence. Derek helps him get the remnants of the web out of the back of the Jeep and carry it inside.

Deaton is waiting for them, and looks at the pieces in surprise. “What on earth is that?” he asks.

“This,” Stiles says with a grunt, as they heave it onto the table, “is what’s left of Sebastian Stone’s latest masterpiece.” He flicks his gaze up to Deaton’s to register his expression, but there isn’t much of one. The veterinarian doesn’t seem at all surprised that Stiles knows his adversary’s identity. “Here’s what it used to be,” he says, and takes out his phone, showing Deaton the picture he took.

Deaton studies it for a moment. “He’s gained in skill, then,” he says quietly. “This is a large working.”

“Yeah, it played merry hell with the pack bond,” Stiles says. “This is what happened to it when I tried that purification spell you showed me the other day.”

The look on Deaton’s face is just blank. “Using . . . what?”

Stiles rubs his hand over the back of his hand. “A circle drawn with a Sharpie.”

Later, he will reflect that he should have gotten Deaton’s reaction on tape. It’s the first time he has ever seen Deaton lose his cool, and he suspects it will be the last. Deaton looks at the charred mess, startled, and blurts out, “What in the hell did you think you were doing? You could have killed yourself! Do you have _any_ idea how lucky you are?”

“Uh, really lucky?” Stiles asks, hoping that the man stops shouting.

“I _told_ you that I would teach you if you wanted to learn magic,” Deaton says. “Sorcery is _dangerous_. You could have killed yourself, you could have killed your entire pack. Your circle wasn’t properly grounded, you wouldn’t have – ” He stops and takes a breath. “Right, sorry,” he says. “This is a subject I feel somewhat passionate about.”

Thinking back to what he knows, Stiles hazards a guess. “Because you had to learn on your own?”

Deaton gives him a sharp look, but then nods. “Sorcery is dangerous for more reasons than you know. That kind of power, it can change you. It’s not a lie when they say that power corrupts. You start thinking that magic can solve all your problems. You start abusing it. In its way, it is like a drug – and it can be very, very difficult to give up the kind of magic that gives you that power.”

“You did,” Stiles says, starting to understand. “Stone didn’t.”

Somewhat wearily, Deaton says, “It was a long time ago.”

Stiles understands that he’s pushed enough for one day. He changes the subject and begins to tell Deaton the details of how the spell had affected them and what had happened when he had tried to purify it. Deaton shakes his head at him a little but then says, “Let’s see if we can do it in a more controlled environment.” He goes into his office and opens the trap door that leads to the basement.

Immediately, Stiles feels his pulse quicken. “Hey, can we stay up here?” he says. “I know that’s your workshop and everything but, uh, I really don’t do well with enclosed spaces. Especially when I’m already feeling edgy. Which I am. Rather, uh, permanently.”

Deaton just looks at him for a moment, then nods and says, “I’ll bring some things up.”

A few minutes later, Stiles is sitting down outside a circle made from salt. Deaton’s put one of his own magical talismans inside, saying it isn’t very powerful and he can remake it later. He talks to Stiles about how to safely ground oneself and draw on their own power, on their _will_ to bend the world around them.

Stiles kneels with his fingers on the edges of the circle and tries over and over again, reciting the words, but nothing happens. After half an hour, Deaton calls a halt to things. “What the hell,” Stiles says. “Why doesn’t it work?”

Deaton shakes his head a little and says, “You don’t have enough belief that it will.”

“But it worked earlier,” Stiles says. “Seems like a no-brainer to me.”

“I think that . . .” Deaton searches for the words to explain the situation. “When you made the mountain ash circle, and when you purified the web, both of those things were done under immense pressure. It was a literal life-or-death, time-is-running-out sort of situation. To protect your pack, you were able to summon up the necessary belief, the necessary _will_ , to do a magical working. There’s no pressure here, no _need_.”

Stiles thinks back to both of those situations and says, “At the time, I thought . . . that it would work because it _had_ to work. There were no other options.”

Deaton nods. “It may be that the only time you’ll be able to use magic is when there’s no other option. To a certain extent, that would make sense. It’s not as if you’ve been brought up to it.”

With a sigh, Stiles rubs both his hands over the back of his head. “No, but it’s going to make this a real pain in the ass. How am I supposed to learn how not to blow myself up if I can only do magic when I’m freaked out enough to blow myself up?”

“It’s a conundrum,” Deaton agrees. “Let me think on it a bit. You should go home. You’ll be very hungry and very tired tonight. That’s normal. Don’t let it worry you.”

“I don’t need the help of sorcery to be those things,” Stiles says, but once he’s back in the Jeep, he thinks that Deaton was probably right. His weariness is bone-deep and his vision is even a little blurry. He stares at the steering wheel for a minute before he reluctantly says, “I think you’d better drive.”

Derek takes the wheel without commentary, so Stiles makes a mental note to make some gingersnap cookies or something to reward him for his self-control. He’s half-asleep by the time they get to the house, and Derek decides to carry him inside without being asked. Stiles decides to let Derek do this, because it makes Derek feel important and manly and maybe, if he feels like he’s protecting his alpha, he won’t complain as much. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that Stiles can barely keep his eyes open.

He does stay awake long enough to text each of the others and confirm that everyone got where they needed to be without being accosted or attacked. He does that one-handed while devouring a grilled cheese sandwich, and then falls asleep on the sofa without further prompting.

“You know, maybe we were thinking about this all wrong,” he says the next morning as he flips French toast in a pan. “Maybe the whole ‘purity of a soul’ thing has nothing to do with me and my debatable moral compass.”

“What, then?” Derek asks, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle.

“Maybe it’s about magic,” Stiles says. “There seems to be two kinds of magic, right? Dark magic, which is what warlocks use, and, well, light magic. Kind of a Jedi-Sith vibe.”

“Okay. So?”

“So, Deaton says that black magic is like a drug. That it’s addictive and, and, corrosive. That it changes you. So maybe that haiku is referring to a magic user who’s . . .”

“Turning to the dark side of the Force?” Derek asks dryly.

“Finally, a movie reference you understand,” Stiles says, and laughs. “Yeah, basically.”

“It’s a good theory,” Derek says, “but the only magic user in town is Deaton, who seems to have made his choice pretty firmly already. I don’t really think you count – if only because Stone wrote that haiku before he saw you do any magic.”

“And also I’m apparently incompetent,” Stiles says. He wants to feel gloomy about this, but it’s actually an unexpected relief. His life does not need to be made more complicated by magic lessons. Screw it. “Well, he and Deaton used to know each other. They both chose separate paths in life. Maybe he wants to get Deaton to, you know, come be a warlock with him.”

Derek puts the orange juice back in the fridge and says, “If that’s his real goal, he sure has chosen an ass-backwards way of going about it.”

Stiles has to agree that this is true. He puts it to the back of his mind as he digs into his breakfast. Despite the fact that he was the one who let everyone separate, it’s a relief to see everyone at school. They pick up Boyd and Isaac on their way, and meet the others once they’re there. Everything seems to be shaping up like a normal day. Harris is _still_ lurking, the bastard, and Stiles makes a mental note that if he tries to provoke the ‘service dog’ to get an aggressive reaction, he will have the man’s head on a pike. Every time he turns around, the chemistry teacher manages to be in the hallway at the same time. “Seriously, why does he even care that much?” he mutters. Derek’s ears prick forward, but he doesn’t otherwise respond.

Just after lunch, they’re in literature class and he’s actually managing to pay attention and make a decent showing while Miss Gutierrez is talking about Christopher Marlowe and his untimely demise. “Of course, he and Shakespeare lived at about the same time,” she says. “In fact, he’s one of the people that some scholars theorize _was_ Shakespeare. I have a copy of . . .” She looks at the extremely tall bookshelf, one of those pre-installed models that goes all the way up to the ceiling. Miss Gutierrez is five feet right on the nose. “Let’s see, who feels tall today?” she asks in a joking tone of voice. “Isaac, do you mind? There’s a copy of a play called _Venus and Adonis_ up on the top shelf there.”

“Sure,” Isaac says. The top shelf is so high that even Isaac winds up having to pull his chair over so he can reach it. He’s just grabbed the book when suddenly, without any warning at all, one leg of his chair snaps in two. The chair overbalances and Isaac goes tumbling to the floor. Stiles’ head snaps up, as does Derek’s. He feels _something_ – some uncontrolled flare of energy that does not feel at all wolflike and therefore can’t have come from any of the pack.

Most of the other wolves would have caught themselves with some sort of acrobatic show that would have left everyone gaping. Isaac, however, has actually trained for this specific circumstance. Stiles had put both Isaac and Scott through a rigorous ‘hey, let’s not make it clear to absolutely _everyone_ that werewolves exist’ training session, because of lacrosse. They both know how to take a fall without instinctively catching themselves. So Isaac lands on the hard floor on his side with a pronounced ‘oof’.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Gutierrez asks, hurrying over.

“I’m good,” Isaac says, sitting up and rubbing one hand over the side of the face to cover the nasty mark as it fades.

Gutierrez looks at the chair, bewildered. “How on earth did _that_ happen?” she wonders aloud, as several people cluster around Isaac and help him to his feet. Stiles is wondering the same thing. He finds that he’s unconsciously clutching the little protection pendant on its black cord.  Derek presses his face into Stiles’ calf and whines quietly.

“I know,” Stiles murmurs. Then, while the rest of the class hovers around Isaac to make sure that he’s okay, Stiles finds his gaze drawn to the one person in the room who isn’t moving or chattering: Jackson. The teenager is just sitting at his desk with a faraway expression on his face. After a moment, he looks up and meets Stiles’ gaze. Then he smirks and lifts his hands so Stiles can see what he’s holding. It’s a pencil, broken in half as neatly as the leg of Isaac’s chair.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I get none of my other wishes for season 3, I really hope Harris gets punched in the face.
> 
> This chapter has a TRIGGER WARNING for hatespeech. Or for Jackson-being-Jackson. (I really have no idea what I'm supposed to TW for and what I'm not, so, better to ere on the side of caution? Because Jackson uses nasty words.)

 

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Allison agrees immediately, as soon as school is over and they’re having a quick powwow before lacrosse practice starts. “But Jackson? Magic?”

“Dr. Deaton says almost anyone can have innate talent,” Stiles says. “I guess it’s no weirder than the possibility of me having magic. And guys, Jackson is a _perfect_ pawn for this guy. He can get close to us. We literally can’t _stop_ him from getting close to us. He hates us, and that would make him easy to manipulate. And we know for a fact the guy is power hungry. That’s why he wanted to be a werewolf in the first place.”

There’s doubt on all their faces, but Lydia seals it with her immediate agreement. “Stiles is right. There’s no way he would say no if Stone offered to teach him.”

“The purity of a soul on the edge,” Scott says. “It wasn’t you, or even Deaton. It was _Jackson_.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, if there was ever an Anakin Skywalker in this school,” Stiles agrees. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate . . .”

“So what do we do about it?” Isaac asks.

Stiles doesn’t have a clue. It’s not like Jackson would listen if any of them tried to warn him away from magic. He wouldn’t believe them for a second, and even if he did, he might not care. He would believe that he was strong enough to withstand the temptation. Or he might embrace the dark magic without a qualm. Stiles really doesn’t know. “I asked Deaton if there were ways to strip someone of their power,” he says. “He wouldn’t answer me. But he thought I was talking about Stone. Maybe his answer will change if I tell him it’s about Jackson.”

“We could go see him while you’re at lacrosse practice,” Erica offers.

Stiles thinks this over, divvies up his resources. “Okay,” he says. “You and Boyd go pay him a visit. Allison, I want you to go talk to your dad. See if he knows anything about fighting sorcerers. Take Lydia with you. The rest of us will go to practice. We’ll regroup and have dinner at Derek’s tonight.”

Everyone’s in agreement with this plan, so they break out of their cluster and Stiles heads towards the locker rooms with the other guys. He comes around a corner and nearly walks face first into Harris. “Jesus!” he says, stumbling backwards, more from surprise than anything else. Derek’s head comes up, but he manages, admirably, not to snarl. “Are you following me or what?” Stiles asks.

Harris gives him that tight, pinched look. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something nasty, but at the last second, thinks better of the idea. He makes a mental note to tell his father about this moment so he can give him some sort of prize. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harris. You just startled me.”

Harris smiles thinly. “Well, somebody should be keeping an eye on that animal of yours,” he says. “If Principal Finch isn’t going to, then I will.”

For a moment, Stiles just stands there with his jaw ajar. He doesn’t think there’s a response in the entire English language that would actually cover his thoughts here.

Unfortunately, Harris takes this as license to continue. “Have you arranged that behavioral evaluation yet? It would be terrible if something were to happen and you weren’t able to prove that your dog was the one in the right. There could be serious consequences for the animal in that sort of situation.”

“I, uh, what?” Stiles manages, which admittedly is better than all the things he _wants_ to say.

He’s still gaping when Harris gestures to the open hallway and says, “Go ahead to practice, boys. Coach Finstock will be waiting.” Then he turns and walks away.

“Did he just ‘run along, little boys’ us?” Isaac asks.

Stiles snaps his jaw shut so hard that he hears his teeth click. He shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “C’mon, let’s go,” he says. But before he can start walking again, Derek takes Stiles’ sleeve in his jaws and purposefully tows him towards the boy’s restroom across the hall. “Uh, I guess we’ll catch up with you in a few minutes,” Stiles says, waving to them. Once in the bathroom, he checks the stall for any eavesdroppers, then says, “What’s up?”

Derek shrugs out of the vest and shifts back to his human form. “I want to go have a little chat with Harris.”

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers all the many, many things that he could say. Finally, he just says, “Then you should put some clothes on.”

Derek nods and grabs Stiles’ backpack, which contains, in addition to his school things, a T-shirt,  pair of jeans, and flip-flops. Stiles had put them there on his first day in school, just in case Derek had to shift for some reason. It’s not the most elegant of outfits, but he doesn’t really have room in his backpack for Derek’s leather jacket and combat boots. “I don’t want to miss too much of practice,” Stiles says, pulling out his phone to shoot a quick text to Scott, who can make his excuses to Finstock.

“I’ll be quick,” Derek says, with a smile that shows teeth.

They find Harris back in his classroom, grading papers with an angry red pen. Derek tells Stiles to wait outside, and Stiles does, because Derek obviously has a plan and he’s not going to get in his way.

Derek steps inside the classroom, somehow managing to move silently even in a pair of flip-flops, and settles his weight against the first student table directly in front of Harris’ desk. He just sits there with the heels of his hands braced on the edge of the table to either side of his hips, and _stares_ at Harris. The teacher, obviously expecting that the sudden presence in one of his room is a student about to beg for mercy, takes this sweet time looking up. As he does, he’s saying, “Yes, can I . . .” And then he catches sight of Derek. “Help you?” comes out an octave higher.

Derek smiles at him. It isn’t exactly full of teeth, but it certainly isn’t comfortable, either. “I’m thinking you’re going to be doing a bit of self-help.”

Harris takes off his glasses and gives them a quick polish. “I’m sorry, but visitors have to check in at the office and receive a badge,” he says sharply. “You are not allowed to be here.”

Derek just shrugs one shoulder. It’s obvious that no fucks are going to be given about this subject. “So, there’s this friend of mine that you’ve been bothering. A lot. In a rather creepy, lurky sort of way. I’d appreciate it if you would stop. Once we come to an understanding on that, I would be happy to vacate your classroom.”

“I-I’m sorry, but who _are_ you?” Harris asks.

“Derek Hale,” he says, and doesn’t hold his hand out to shake.

Harris turns three shades paler. “I, that is, what are you,” he stammers.

Derek can’t help but roll his eyes at ‘what are you’. There are so many smart-assed replies available that he just can’t. Not a one. It’s too easy. “What am I doing here?”

Harris clears his throat and says, “Yes. What are you doing here?”

“Stay with the conversation. I’ve already covered that.” This is a lot like hunting any other prey, Derek is discovering. It’s best to keep Harris from getting his mental feet under himself. “I want you to stop skulking around after my friend and making vaguely ominous comments about his dog.”

There’s a brief pause while Harris tries to collect himself. “If you’re referring to Mr. Stilinski, then I’ll have you know that I believe that dog is a danger to the other students, and my behavior has been perfectly appropriate.”

“The dog wouldn’t have been certified as a service animal if it had any sort of temperament issues,” Derek says. “They’re tested for that.” God only knew that he had put up with all sorts of ridiculous crap that day, including being manhandled by small children, loud noises right in his ear, and a phone book that had nearly been dropped on his foot. “I’m pretty sure that nobody asked for your opinion on the matter, so kindly keep it to yourself.”

Harris draws himself up a little and says, “Well, I fail to see how your opinion on the matter has any bearing, either. You’re not a student or faculty member of this school.”

“No.” Derek shifts his weight. “But I am Stiles’ friend. Or more to the point, he’s my friend, and I try to look out for people who are close to me. On account of that there just aren’t that many of them anymore. There was a fire. You may have heard . . .?”

At this, Harris blanches and looks away. It takes him another moment to pull himself together and apparently decide that he’s not going to respond to that. “So what exact consequences do you intend if I don’t agree? Are you threatening me?”

“Well, I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking,” Derek says, but he’s careful to keep his voice calm and non-menacing. “I’m pretty sure that following Stiles around the school and making him uncomfortable, making him feel like his service dog isn’t safe – the service dog that he needs in order to attend school like anyone else his age – is harassment, and most likely breaks several laws that cover disabilities. You know, those same laws that allow him to have the service dog to begin with.” Derek smiles, that same, slightly feral smile. “So I guess I am threatening you. With my lawyer. My very good, very expensive lawyer. That I keep on retainer, paid for with all the insurance money I received after my family died and my home was burned to the ground. Which I may remind you, you helped happen, and I have never pressed charges over. But I still can. At any time.”

Harris stammers for another minute before he manages to say, “You, you wouldn’t actually take this to court, it’s just a dumb animal – ”

Derek lets out a snort of laughter. “If you have to ask me that question, then I’m pretty sure that dog is smarter than you. I will _absolutely_ take this to court.” He gives that a second or two to sink in. “In a heartbeat.” Another pause. “I hear you’re one year from tenure.”

Now Harris just looks like he might actually dive out the window to escape the conversation. “I, I, that’s completely irrelevant – ”

“Is it?” Derek feigns a look of surprise. “Am I misunderstanding the term? Tenure is the status that teachers are granted that protects them from summary dismissal, isn’t it?”

Harris can’t even say a word to that.

“So, since you aren’t arguing with my definition of the word, I guess I’m correct,” Derek says. “And since Stiles’ dog passed all of his qualifications and certifications, and all the appropriate documentation was provided to your superiors, and since I do have that lawyer, do you think maybe we can come to some sort of agreement? Such as, you teach chemistry and leave Stiles and his dog alone?”

Harris manages a wordless nod.

Derek heaves a sigh. “Say it out loud so I know you have some conviction.”

“Unless . . . there is another incident,” Harris says, “I will leave Stiles and his dog alone.”

Derek can’t keep the disgusted look off his face at Harris’ qualifier. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Just a prize among humanity.” With that, Derek stands up and heads to the door, because otherwise he’s going to introduce Harris’ face to his desk.

Stiles is still waiting outside, sitting on the floor and leaning against a locker, holding his phone in one hand. He looks up when Derek comes out and says, “Dude. That was hot.”

“Have you slipped another point on the Kinsey scale?” Derek asks, glad to be distracted from Harris. He extends a hand to Stiles and pulls him to his feet.

“Yeah, I’m looking at, like, one and three-quarters now,” Stiles jokes. He bumps his shoulder against Derek’s and says, “I’m starting to rub off on you. That’s kind of awesome.”

There might be a small but genuine smile. “You get all that recorded?”

“And you know me so well!” Stiles flails a little, gesturing with the phone. “Of course. Good job not threatening to tear his throat out with your teeth. I know how badly you wanted to.”

“Oh my God.” Derek’s nose wrinkles. In a rough parody of Harris’ voice, he says, “It’s just a dumb animal.” He growls. “I wanted to cut that son of a bitch.”

“Down, Fido,” Stiles says, amused despite himself. “So do you actually keep a lawyer on retainer, or was that bullshit?”

Derek glances over at him as they start down the hallway towards the bathroom. “The Hale family did keep a lawyer on retainer,” he says. “Being part of the supernatural world can have legal consequences, as you’ve seen. I . . . after Laura died, I let it lapse for a little while. I just didn’t care that much about . . . anything. But after what happened when you killed Peter, I decided it might be a good idea to have him on retainer just in case . . . that ever went to trial.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush,” Stiles says. “You did that for me?”

With a scowl, Derek says, “I did it for the pack.”

Now Stiles just grins at him. “Of course you did,” he says. “Now let’s get you back in your fur so I can go to lacrosse practice.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles plays the audio file of Derek’s confrontation with Harris on his phone so everyone can hear it. They eat fresh gingersnaps that he spent the afternoon baking and generally laugh about what a dickhead Harris is for almost fifteen minutes before Stiles reins them all in to get down to business. “Okay, guys, what’d you find out?”

Boyd looks down at his notes. “Dr. Deaton says that when you have a rogue sorcerer, there are two ways to contain them. You can either strip their power away, or bind it so they can’t access it. The former is permanent but the latter can be undone later. But he says doing either of those things to someone would require either their cooperation, or hair or blood. And he said the spell was really difficult, and only something to attempt as a last resort.”

“Hm.” Stiles thinks this over. “Okay. Next lacrosse practice, Isaac, Scott, I want you to go after Jackson. See if you can get him to bleed on you.”

This is met with a somewhat startled laugh, and then agreement. Then Allison takes out some notes she had taken while talking with her father. Some of it confirms the things Justin had told them. Unfortunately, by the time Chris and his hunters are dealing with a warlock, they’ve usually passed ‘strip them of their power’ and moved on to ‘shoot them in the face’. Stiles is pretty sure that this is not something that he’ll be doing to Jackson any time soon. He’ll settle for hoping that the protection charms will keep them safe from anything too bad. He and Allison have the most to worry about; a fall like the one Isaac took will hurt them far more than any of the wolves. But they’re pretty accustomed to being beaten up on, and in general, they can protect themselves.

Lydia ventures, very hesitantly, that Jackson is the one who will end up being hurt. Stiles can’t exactly argue with this, given what Deaton has told them about black magic. He has absolutely no idea how to fix the problem, however, so he decides to sleep on it.

“Maybe we can talk to him,” Allison says, as they head to school the next day.

“What, like, ‘this is your brain on magic’?” Stiles asks.

“Why would Jackson listen to anything we say?” Isaac asks, his shoulders hunched up, hands tucked into his pockets. “I bet Stone’s already told him we’ll try that kind of thing and that he shouldn’t believe us, that we’re just saying that so he’ll stop doing magic.”

“He’s probably right,” Lydia says. “Even if he hasn’t, Jackson won’t . . . he’ll think it won’t happen to him. That he’ll be _better_ than that. You know how, people with a strong family history of alcoholism, a lot of them just never take a drink in their whole lives? Because they don’t want to risk it? Jackson’s the guy that would drink just to prove that he could.”

“Maybe we can convince someone he cares about to talk to him,” Boyd suggests. “Someone he would believe.”

“Like who?” Scott asks, frowning. “He doesn’t really seem close to anyone, and besides, nobody else knows about magic or any of that shit.”

“Do you think Dr. Deaton would talk to him?” Erica asks.

Scott’s face crinkles with thought. “I think he would, but I don’t think that would make any difference to Jackson,” he finally says.

“If we could physically get a hold of him, we could put him in a mountain ash circle and see if we could strip his power,” Allison says. “Deaton said it was difficult, not impossible.”

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s a move they’ll see coming,” he says. “If we try to physically hold him, we’ll find ourselves in big trouble. Don’t forget that Jackson’s dad is the district attorney. They’ve got it set up somehow so if we try to force him to go with us, or hold onto him, there will be legal ramifications. We’re going to have to find another way.”

Nobody has any ideas, so they suspend the conversation for the length of the school day. Stiles forces himself to focus through a lecture on Doctor Faust and what seems like endless trigonometry. He’s fidgety during history and keeps raising his hand until the teacher finally glares him down and calls on Scott instead. Scott fumbles for the answer to her question but seems to have no clue. “Did you do the reading, Mr. McCall?” the teacher asks, sounding a little exasperated. Stiles can’t help but let out a snort of laughter, knowing that Scott _did_ the reading, but Allison was in his lap at the time, so he might have been a little distracted.

Then he goes to home economics and they’re in pairs, each pair having been assigned a different way to cook eggs, which is just as boring as it sounds. He slips a hard-boiled egg to Derek, who has been putting up with all of this with his usual stoicism (by which Stiles means he slept through the first three periods of the day; he resents Derek deeply for this, given how much he complains about having to get up early).

Spanish is after lunch, a class he shares with Scott and Erica, who takes the class for an easy A because her father’s from Mexico and she was raised bilingual. They’re going up and down the rows, doing conjugations. Scott again just stares blankly at the teacher when he’s called on. Now Stiles frowns over at him. They did their homework together; he knows that Scott knows this. One might be a fluke, but when Scott just sputters a second time, he begins to suspect that something is actually wrong. The teacher, Mr. Espinoza, makes a show of making down Scott’s failure in his little book. Scott starts to look panicky, but he survives until the end of class.

As soon as the bell rings, he turns to Stiles and says, “Ask me a question I know the answer to.”

“Okay, who’s Luke Skywalker’s father?” Stiles asks. It’s meant almost as a joke, but when he sees the completely blank look on Scott’s face, a chill goes through him. “Seriously? Uh, what city is the capital of California?” Nothing. “How many players are on a lacrosse team?” he asks, and Scott just sputters again and then lets out a little wolf whine.

“What’s _wrong_ with me?” he asks Stiles, who waves him into the hallway.

“My guess is that someone has magically sucked out every shred of intelligence you once possessed,” Stiles says grimly.

Scott just stares at him, then stammers, “I, I have an anatomy test sixth period. I can’t be stupid right now!”

Stiles sympathizes, but he’s at a loss as to how to help. Erica and Derek are both watching this conversation, but not participating, as the crowd of high school students mills around them. Short of the cure-all mountain ash circle, which a teacher would surely notice, he can’t think of a way to fix this. he has no idea how Jackson might even be _doing_ it; the protection spell is supposed to be shielding them against this sort of spell, that would directly affect them. “Are you wearing your pendant?” he asks, but he knows the answer is yes. He gave them all strict instructions _never_ to take the damned things off. Not for sleeping, showering, sexing, anything. He even made little bags of padding that could be tied around them to protect them during lacrosse practice.

“What? Yeah, of course I am,” Scott says, his hand hovering over his chest for a minute. He sees the look of frustrated helplessness on Stiles’ face. “Oh, shit, I’m really fucked, aren’t I,” he says.

Scott’s having a panic attack, that much is clear, and that’s what gives Stiles the idea that might at least save Scott’s grades, if not solve the larger problem. “You’re having an asthma attack,” he says.

“I – what?” Scott asks, giving him a funny look, momentarily confused out of his anxiety.

“You, me, nurse’s office,” Stiles says. “Let’s go.” He takes Scott by the elbow, loops Derek’s leash around his backpack strap, and gets an arm around Scott’s waist. “Too bad, but you’re gonna have to go home. You’ll have to make up your anatomy test later. I’m sure the teacher will understand. You do have fairly severe asthma, after all. Why, it’s a miracle you’ve made it so long without missing school.”

Scott gets the picture at this, and starts putting on a rather convincing show of wheezing, pulling for each breath. Of course, he’s faked asthma attacks before, although mostly back when he was much younger and really wanted to a) get out of doing the dishes, or b) get his father in trouble for upsetting him. Stiles helps him into the nurse’s office and into a chair, where he sits with his hands clenched down on the edge of the chair, elbows locked, head slightly bowed.

“Oh, Scott,” the nurse, an older woman named Julia, says. “You were doing so well, I hadn’t seen you in a while!”

“Yeah, I,” Scott wheezes out.

“Did you take your inhaler, sweetie?” she asks him, and he nods. “Okay. I’ll call your mom . . .”

Scott knows Julia well, and he knows that asking to go home is the quickest way to get sent back to class – and vice versa. “No, just wanna lie down for a bit,” he says, spacing out the words between each breath. “I have a science test . . .”

“I don’t know, you really don’t look very good,” Julia says, doubt creeping into her voice. “I think I’d better have your mom come get you.”

Scott gives in and slumps over, defeated. Stiles hastily says, “I can drive him home,” because he doesn’t want Scott to be left by himself.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Stilinski,” Julia says. “You should get back to class.”

“But I – ” Stiles says, and then realizes that there’s absolutely no protest he can make. It makes perfect sense to _him_ to ditch school and get Scott out of here. Scott is part of his pack, and defending his pack comes before everything else. He doesn’t want any pack member to be alone right now, so obviously, he has to go with him. That’s not exactly something he can say to Julia, though.

Before he can hem and haw, Erica comes in through the nurse’s office door. “Mrs. Forrester, I feel really crappy,” she says, thumping dramatically into the chair, just as Julia is about to dial Scott’s mother. “My head hurts and I feel all foggy and tired.”

“Okay, hon,” Julia says. “Give me a minute to call Scott’s mom, and then I’ll call yours.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Erica says, pulling out her phone and starting to send rapid-fire texts. “If Scott’s mom is coming to pick him up, I’ll just go with her. She can drop me off. She’s my nurse; my mom will be totes cool with it.” She sees the dubious look on Julia’s face and adds, “I don’t want to bug her at work, you know? She’s been so happy about being able to get a job now that I’ve been doing so much better on the new drugs. I’d hate to make her have to leave.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Julia says, “I’ll call your mom, and if she says that’s okay, we’ll do it. But I have to call her.”

Erica heaves a sigh and continues texting. “Yeah, okay,” she says.

Julia pauses in her dialing to give Stiles a pointed look. “Mr. Stilinski.”

“Oh! Right,” he says hastily. “Class. I’m on it.” He gives Scott a quick, manly, shoulder squeeze. Then he leans down and kisses Erica on the cheek. “See you later,” he says to both of them, and trots out of the waiting room, feeling much relieved. He pulls out his phone and texts Erica to have Scott’s mom take them back to Derek’s, and he’ll meet them there later.

He fidgets through physics like he’s in Adderall withdrawal, wracking his brain for what could be happening. Beyond ‘magic, duh’, he’s at a loss. This is exactly what the protection charm is supposed to _prevent_ , so how could it be happening? He tries to surreptitiously look through some websites that he’s found more reputable than others that might explain this, but no dice, and he eventually puts it away because he’s going to fail physics if he doesn’t pay attention. It’s difficult enough to concentrate. He can feel Scott’s impending panic like a shrill whine right in his ear, and the unease and concern of the other werewolves crawls over his skin no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

His last class of the day is gym. It’s dodgeball Wednesday, which works out for him. He lets himself be tagged out early so he can sit on the bleachers and play with his phone. But it’s also a class with Jackson, so he takes a look over at the other teenager. He just looks _bad_ – pale and exhausted, sweating, uncoordinated. He’s normally a demon at dodgeball, but on this particular day he’s tagged out almost as quickly as Stiles is.

Stiles thinks of how tired and hungry he was just after half an hour of _trying_ to do magic, and it doesn’t surprise him that Jackson is worn out. He’s not resting and eating enough to compensate for all the magic he’s trying to do. It further confirms the theory that whatever’s wrong with Scott, it’s Jackson’s fault. Stiles thinks this over and then sends a quick text to Scott, asking if Jackson had gotten close to him at lacrosse practice the previous day. Scott replies that they’d bumped a couple of times, but there had been no serious encounters. No bleeding, and he’s pretty sure that if Jackson had pulled out some of his hair, he would have noticed.

“Then how in the hell . . .” Stiles mutters under his breath, frustrated beyond reason. He sneaks a quick look at Jackson on the bleachers, who’s just staring out into space. Stiles snarls to himself and goes to re-read the cheat sheets he’s gotten from Justin and Chris. The answer hits him like a two-by-four to the face. “Fucking _hell_ ,” he says under his breath. Derek lifts his head, ears pricking up. He knows the tone that Stiles uses when he’s made a connection. “Scott’s fucking _ring_.”

They both look over at Jackson, who seems to be on another planet. Then another game starts and Stiles is forced back into the fray. It’s all he can do to contain the jittery rage that’s consuming him until Finstock calls a halt to things and they go back into the locker room. Once there, Stiles wastes no time. It’s a shame he doesn’t share gym with Isaac or Boyd; he could really use the backup right now. He marches right over to Jackson when he’s done changing and says, “Give it back.”

“Give what back?” Jackson asks, smirking at him.

“You know damn well what,” Stiles says, aware that half the guys present have stopped changing to watch this confrontation. “Scott’s Claddagh ring, that Allison gave him. It went missing during lacrosse practice the other day, and you took it.”

“What the fuck would I want with that jerk-off’s ring?” Jackson asks.

Keenly aware of everyone listening, Stiles says, “How should I know? Maybe you want to give it to your girlfriend. Maybe you want to wank to it. Maybe you’re using it as a voodoo charm to cast black magic on him.”

The look on Jackson’s face, the quiet, stunned, almost panicky little ‘can he _say_ that in front of everyone?’ is priceless. He recovers quickly, though, and says, “Yeah, well, you can come up with all the bullshit you want, but I don’t have Scott’s ring, so piss off.”

Jackson shoulders by him and leaves the locker room in a huff. Stiles lets him. He’s at school; he’s got enough trouble. He can’t just beat the shit out of Jackson, as much as it would give him joy. Instead, he shoulders his backpack and sidles over to Danny. “Hey. Do me a solid?”

Danny looks after Jackson, then sighs. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him about it,” he says.

“Thanks, bro,” Stiles says, and takes off. He doesn’t want to leave the others waiting. They meet him in the parking lot, and he gives them all a quick update. His frustration must be obvious, because they hover close to him, pressing in tighter than most people would consider socially acceptable. He doesn’t expect Danny to be able to get anywhere with Jackson, which is confirmed by text about five minutes later, as they continue to stand in a tight knot.

Lydia is particularly quiet, but after almost ten minutes of fierce discussion, plans proposed and then dropped for obvious flaws, she finally says, “Let me handle this.”

Stiles gives a her somewhat surprised look, and hesitantly says, “Lydia, I don’t think he’ll give it back if you ask him to.”

“Oh, he will,” she says. “I just have to do it right.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, because Lydia’s a lot smarter than him most of the time. Of course, Jackson is one of the few things she tends to be stupid about, but they can at least give her plan a go. “But I’m going with you.”

She tosses her hair and says, “You’ll be more hindrance than help.”

“Yeah, swell,” Stiles says.

Lydia sighs. “Okay. Fine. I’ll make it work.”

Stiles looks at the others and says, “You guys head back to Derek’s. We’ll meet you there when we’re done. Try to keep Scott from freaking out too much. Allison, I leave that in your capable hands. Hopefully he hasn’t forgotten how to, hey, maybe I shouldn’t finish that sentence, look at me censoring myself, my dad would be so fuckin’ proud of me. Let’s get moving.”

The others shake their heads in fond amusement at his antics, and head over to Allison’s car. Stiles gets in the Jeep with Lydia and Derek and says, “Where to, my lady?”

She tilts her chin over towards Jackson’s little sporty car, which is still in its spot. “Have to wait and see where he’s going,” she says.

Fortunately, they don’t have to wait long. Jackson skulks out of the school about five minutes later, gets into his car, and drives off. Stiles leaves some space between them, but it quickly becomes clear that Jackson is just going straight home. “Fuck,” he says, underneath his breath. But Lydia gives him a pretty smile and says that’s good; that’s where she wants him. Stiles gives up on understanding what Lydia’s plan is. The lady likes her mystery. So he parks down the street and they walk over to Jackson’s house. Lydia goes right up the front walk and rings the bell.

Jackson’s mother answers it a few moments later. She looks surprised, and says, “Lydia! Oh, honey, it’s so nice to see you again!” She reaches out and gives the teenager a hug. “I’ve really missed you, you know. Nobody gives me fashion tips like you do!”

Lydia laughs, that charming, beautiful laugh. “I’m sorry I’ve stayed away,” she says. “Oh, this is my boyfriend, Stiles,” she says. Mrs. Whittemore smiles and shakes his hand. “And his dog, Jack. He’s a service dog. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all, come in,” Mrs. Whittemore says. “I think Jackson’s mentioned the dog,” she says, a little bit of doubt creeping into her voice.

“He’s very well-behaved,” Stiles assures her. “Jack, shake.”

Derek shoots Stiles a quick look and rolls his eyes, but then politely extends his paw. Mrs. Whittemore is instantly charmed.

“So what brings you here?” she asks.

“We-e-e-ell,” Lydia says, drawing the word out, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. It’s a little embarrassing, and I know that I’m going to sound petty, but . . . Jackson has this ring that I gave him, and I really want it back. It’s a family heirloom – it was my grandfather’s. I gave it to him, I know it’s silly, but I really thought we were going to be together forever. And I know it’s horrible to ask for a gift back, and if it hadn’t belonged to my grandfather I would let him keep it, but . . .”

“Ah, young love,” Mrs. Whittemore says, laughing a little. “Believe it or not, there was a time when I was young and foolish, too.”

“I’ve asked him for it,” Lydia says, and her voice chokes up a little. Tears on command have always been a favored weapon of Lydia’s. “But he won’t even _talk_ to me about it, I mean, he really won’t talk to me at all, and I . . .”

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Whittemore says, and pulls her into a quick embrace. “Okay. Let’s go have a chat with him.”

Lydia smiles at her, a wan, ‘I’m trying to keep it together’ type of smile. Then she looks at Stiles and says, “Why don’t you wait down here, okay?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. But he creeps over to the bottom of the staircase so he can listen to their conversation, aided by his enhanced hearing. Jackson is playing terrible rap music, and Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes as Jackson protests his mother turning it off.

Then Jackson catches sight of Lydia and says, “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Jackson, for goodness’ sake,” his mother says. “Manners, please.”

Jackson huffs out an annoyed sigh, but says, somewhat grudgingly, “Uh, Lydia. Did you need something?”

Her voice a study in timid uncertainty, Lydia says, “Jackson, I, I really want my ring back.”

“ _Your_ ring?” Jackson says, incredulous.

Lydia makes a choked little sob. “I know, I know that I gave it to you and I’m horrible for asking for it back, but you know how much it means to me . . .”

Jackson seems to be at a complete loss for a minute, obviously wondering why the ring he stole from Scott now somehow belongs to her. After a minute, he decides he had better just roll with it, because he has no idea what kind of scheme Lydia’s playing at and he can’t exactly mention who the ring actually belongs to in front of his mother. “Look, you uh, it’s not fair to ask for a gift back, I mean . . . besides, we broke up almost a year ago! Why do you want it now?”

Stiles can practically _see_ Lydia’s haughty hair flip. “Well, maybe, _just maybe_ , I was holding out hope that we might get back together!” she retorts. “Up until you started reaching second base with your new girlfriend between every period and at every lacrosse practice!”

“Hey!” Jackson protests. “What Autumn and I do is none of your business – ”

“Oh, really?” Lydia’s all flash and fire now, the righteous indignation of a woman scorned. “Then why is it that every time you see me and Stiles so much as holding hands, you shoulder check him into oblivion during lacrosse?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lydia,” Jackson snaps back, “if you think for one second that I’m buying you and Stiles as a couple, you’re dumb as fuck. I know he’s queer for Derek Hale, anyway, and I’d think you could do better than being some fag’s beard – ”

“Jackson!” Mrs. Whittemore sounds appalled. “You should be ashamed of yourself! And Danny would beat the snot out of you if he heard you talking like that. You apologize to Lydia right now!”

There’s a pause, before Jackson says, sullenly, “Okay, I’m sorry I called your boyfriend queer.”

Lydia is obviously struggling to ‘compose herself’. Her voice is again just a little choked up as she says, “Apology accepted. Can I please just have the ring back, Jackson?”

“Fine, Jesus Christ,” Jackson snaps. “Take the damned thing.” There’s the noise of a drawer opening and then slamming shut.

“Thank you,” Lydia says tearfully. She comes downstairs with Mrs. Whittemore a moment later, wiping her eyes as Jackson’s mother pats her shoulder sympathetically.

“I’m so sorry he’s acting like that,” Mrs. Whittemore says. “He’s just been so _moody_ lately. I’ll talk to him, okay?”

Lydia forces another smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Whittemore,” she says. “Mission accomplished,” she adds to Stiles. Stiles, who knows how to play his role, leans over and gives her a hug and a chaste peck on the lips. He thanks Jackson’s mother as well, and the two of them depart with Derek trotting along behind him.

“God, you’re such a babe,” Stiles says, as soon as they’re outside.

Lydia just gives him one of those ‘I’m the prettiest, smartest, most amazing girl on earth’ smiles. “I know,” she says. “To the clinic?”

“To the clinic!” Stiles declares. “Avast, ahoy, and all that.” He puts the Jeep in drive and starts down the street. “You know, I’m surprised,” he says. “Jackson’s mom actually seems like a nice lady.”

“Jackson’s mom is a nice lady,” Lydia says. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Just, he’s so awful, I presumed that his parents would be stuck-up, entitled snots just like he is,” Stiles says, with a shrug.

“Jackson’s parents spoiled the ever-living crap out of him because he’s never forgiven them for the fact that he’s adopted,” Lydia says. “They thought that letting him have anything he wanted would somehow fix that.” She gives a little shrug, then darts a sideways look at Stiles. “Is that what you thought about me? That I was an entitled snot?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says. When she gives him a hurt little look, he says, “Lydia, you used to go _out of your way_ to pretend I didn’t exist.”

Lydia cringes a little. “I guess I can’t hold that against you,” she says.

“What’s past is past,” Stiles said. “It’s done. And nobody’s perfect. So, I forgive you, let’s move on with our lives.”

She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “Okay,” she says. Then: “I’d better call Dr. Deaton and let him know we’re coming.”

Several minutes later, they’re at the clinic. Deaton has warned his secretary that they’re coming, and she waves them into the back and slips Derek a treat, which he carefully holds in his mouth until she’s out of view. Then he spits it onto the floor. Stiles gives a snort of laughter and says hello to the veterinarian.

“This will take just a minute,” he says, accepting the ring from Lydia. He examines at it carefully, then shakes his head and murmurs, “Now that is just petty.” Then he heads through the trap door and into the basement. Stiles paces around anxiously while he waits, but as promised, it only takes a few minutes before Deaton comes up and says, “Tell Scott to be a little more careful of his things.”

“Lesson learned, I think.” Stiles takes out his phone and dials Scott. He picks up sounding stressed and anxious. “What’s Spider-Man’s real name?”

“Peter Parker,” Scott responds automatically. Then he says, “Oh my God, dude, I, I, I fuckin’ love you, can I say that without this being weird?”

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, okay. But it’s Lydia you should be going gaga over. She was amazing. I’ll tell you all about it when we get back.” He says his goodbyes and hangs up the phone. Then he looks at Dr. Deaton. “We have a problem,” he says.

Deaton nods, solemn. “Yes, you do.”

“How much time do we have before Jackson . . .?”

“It may already be too late,” Deaton says quietly. “Black magic corrupts people very quickly. It provides an unbelievable rush. His little pranks are going to escalate. You should be very careful.”

Stiles pushes both hands through his hair. “What if we can’t stop him?”

“Then you’ll have two choices,” Deaton says. “Either you can kill him, or you can let him be a warlock. Either way, the Jackson you know will be lost forever.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING for sexual assault.
> 
> Right in the feels.

 

Stiles is somewhat dreading school, but it’s quieter than expected because Jackson is out sick. Stiles isn’t terribly surprised, given how he had looked day before. Jackson is pushing himself hard, and it’s catching up with him. Since he’s out, they take the opportunity to break into his locker; Stiles is thinking that they can steal something of his and maybe find some way to use it to bind his power from a distance. Unfortunately, the locker is completely empty. Stone was ahead of them on that score.

Lacrosse practice is fun, because without Jackson there, Stiles gets to show off a little. When it’s over, he finds that he’s received a rather cryptic text from his father. ‘Please come by the station. Bring Derek (not Jack).’ He frowns at this message for a minute, then shrugs and relays the message to Derek. Scott and Isaac decide to go back to Scott’s and get a start on their homework. Scott has to make up the anatomy test during his lunch period the next day.

Sandy’s obviously expecting them; she looks up when they come in and says, “Hey, Stiles,” and then, in a slightly flirtatious tone, “Hi, Derek.” Since Derek hangs out with Stiles, she’s seen him fairly frequently. They all seem under the impression that Sheriff Stilinski has sort of adopted Derek like a lost puppy, and that it’s good for Stiles to have an older brother figure around. Someone who can look out for him, since the Sheriff works so much. Stiles is just glad that people at the station haven’t presumed they’re dating, as he’s very sure this would lead to lectures about the dangers of taking up with older men. However, this gives Sandy and a few other female officers license to hit on Derek as they choose. He usually responds with aloof politeness, which is about as much as anyone can expect from him. Naturally, this just encourages them.

“Your dad’s in his office,” she says, and Stiles thanks her and jogs down the hallway.

Stilinski looks up as they come in. “Hey, shut the door behind you,” he says.

“Uh oh,” Stiles says, and does so. “What’s up?”

His father heaves a sigh. “Harris has filed a complaint. He seems to think that Derek has been threatening him.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes. Me and my oh-so-intimidating flip-flops had a chat with him yesterday.”

Sheriff Stilinski looks somewhat amused despite himself. “Dare I ask what was discussed in this little chat?”

“Sure,” Derek says with a shrug. “He’s been following Stiles around the school and making subtle comments about how he’d hate to see his service dog get put down. I told him to knock it off.”

At this, Stilinski snaps to attention. He looks at Stiles, who is suddenly extremely interested in his fingernails. “Is that true, Stiles?”

“Yeah, well, kinda?” Stiles says. His father looks unimpressed. He lets out a breath. “Yeah. He’s always in the hallway wherever I am, and the other day he ‘reminded me’ about the behavioral evaluation, saying that he’d hate to see anything happen to the dog.”

It’s an obvious effort for Sheriff Stilinski to keep his temper. “One of these days, I’m going to pistol whip that little bastard,” he growls. “Why the hell didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“It just seemed so, so _stupid_ ,” Stiles says. “I mean, here I am trying to pass five difficult academic classes and fight off a freakin’ _warlock_ , it seemed like I should be able to just ignore that jerk. It’s not like anything would actually happen to ‘Jack’, I mean, if he did have to bite somebody or something, he might wind up at animal control, and then he would just shift to his human form, glare at the nearest passerby and demand pants or something, and they’d all try to forget it ever happened.”

“Be that as it may,” Stilinski says, “what Harris is doing is harassment, and you should have told me.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Stiles says, with a sigh.

Stilinski holds up his hands in surrender. “You’ve had a lot to think about. Okay. Derek, did you threaten Harris?”

“Not in the manner he means it,” Derek says. “I told him to leave Stiles alone or I would get lawyers involved and take him to court over it.”

“I hope you mean that, because the way it’s shaping up, we very well might have to,” Stilinski says. “As much as this bastard isn’t worth our time.”

“But you have to investigate,” Stiles says, and both of the men blink at him. He blinks back. “Don’t you see? That’s his play. He knows that you’ll talk to Derek, that Derek will tell you what happened, and then you’ll write the whole thing off. Then he’ll go to the press or the DA and say ‘I filed this complaint about Derek Hale threatening me, but the Sheriff ignored me, he plays favorites, he can’t be trusted to execute the duties of his office’.”

“Shit.” Stilinski rubs his hands over his face. “And of course it’s an election year . . .”

“Is anyone else actually running?” Derek asks.

“Not so far,” Stilinski says. “I’ve run unopposed the last two elections. But that doesn’t mean that someone won’t step up if they smell blood in the water.” He sighs. “Okay. We’ll investigate fair and square. Derek, I’m going to have Carmichael interview you – it’s better if someone other than me does it.”

“We have the conversation recorded,” Stiles says.

“Now why does that not surprise me?” Stilinski asks, amused again. “Maybe I’ll arrest him for filing a false report.”

Stiles just shakes his head and says, “I thought he wasn’t worth our time.”

“Son,” Stilinski says, “I want you to imagine something for a moment. Let’s just pretend that the whole ‘werewolf’ thing wasn’t true. That you had been . . .”

Seeing that his father was having trouble finishing the sentence, Stiles says, “Assaulted in a more believable fashion?”

“Sure,” Stilinski says. He has to swallow hard before he could continue. “And that you’d gotten an actual service dog to help with your actual PTSD. Do you see Harris in this imaginary world acting any differently than he is right now?”

“No,” Stiles admits.

“No,” Stilinski agrees. “Only you’d be less able to defend yourself. So. We’re going to take this exactly as far as we need to, whether Harris is worth it or not. Let me talk to Carmichael. And send me that recording that you have.”

Stiles sighs and does so. It just seems so stupid to be focusing on this when he’s got so many bigger problems. He’s beginning to think that maybe they can try to break into Jackson’s house and take something that belongs to him. Lydia would know what’s meaningful. If they get caught, well, that’s a less problematic prank than trying to physically abduct him. They could say they were just playing a joke. Of course, that will only work if anything _has_ meaning to Jackson, which Stiles sort of doubts. He wonders if they can steal his car.

Things are quiet over the weekend. Stiles decides to go back to the office building and see if it looks like Stone is staying there, or if he’s moved again. The place is empty – same old dusty furniture on the first floor, and the second floor has been cleaned out. His father is monitoring the credit card for activity, and there’s been none. That doesn’t bother Stiles too much; if Stone gets a new credit card, that will be flagged as well. If he’s laid in enough cash to last him a while, however, that could be a problem.

Without any better ideas, he decides that they should at least give a stab at talking to Jackson. There’s an infinitesimal chance that it will work, and he’ll feel stupid if there’s such an easy solution and they don’t take it. But he knows that he had better not be involved, given how much Jackson hates his ass. So he sends Scott and Allison to talk to him. Jackson likes Allison, historically at least, and Scott _did_ save his ass once, so that might theoretically win him some points.

But the talk goes about as well as Stiles had expected. Jackson just blows them off and says that they’re jealous because he can finally do something that they can’t. He also makes several comments about ‘paying them back’ for everything they’ve done to him. Stiles grinds his teeth and tries to pretend that Jackson doesn’t exist. He’s feeling less and less sympathy for the other teenager by the moment. It’s getting to the point where, if Jackson loses his soul to black magic, he won’t particularly care.

He has a feeling that Derek shares this opinion, even if nobody else does. Allison can be practical, but at heart she’s a kind person, and of course Scott’s moral compass is the stuff of legend. Lydia doesn’t seem to see Jackson clearly, and the idea of him suffering upsets her even if she won’t admit it. Isaac and Boyd don’t have the same solid confidence that would enable them to make life-or-death decisions yet. Erica is the only other pack member who seems to share Stiles and Derek’s “so what if Jackson takes a long walk off a short pier” sentiment.

Stiles poses the idea of stealing something of Jackson’s, but the others are quick to point out that they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Even if Stiles was able to muster up the necessary belief to do a spell, he doesn’t know any, and it’s pretty clear that self-taught magic is a good way to blow himself up. Scott very much doubts that Deaton would be willing to actually cast on Jackson for them, since he seems to know all about magic but doesn’t do much of it himself. Stiles is forced to reluctantly agree.

Everyone is sick of the buddy rule, Stiles’ physics grade has dropped from an A minus to a B, and in short, the whole thing has him pissed off.

Wednesdays and Fridays are the days without lacrosse practice, so he decides to do his shopping after school. He’s gotten a new little vest for Derek that he can attach the leash too, so he won’t have to wear a collar anymore. This is good, because every time he shifted back and was standing there naked except for a collar, Stiles couldn’t look at him without laughing. The two of them hit up the grocery store (Derek helpfully adds some things to the cart) and the pharmacy for a refill on his Adderall before heading back to Derek’s.

When he gets back, Scott and Allison are doing their homework while Erica channel surfs on TV. “If that’s Jersey Shore, you’re out of the pack,” Stiles calls over to her as he sets the groceries down. “Where are the others?”

“Isaac and Boyd went back to his place to do Boyd-stuff,” Scott says, a little distractedly, as he works through a difficult algebra problem.

“’Kay. What about Lydia?”

At this, Scott’s head jerks up. Allison and Erica both look over as well. “She’s not with you?”

“What? No,” Stiles says. “Why would she be with me? I thought she was going to come back here with you guys.”

“She texted me,” Allison says, pulling out her phone. “Saying she was going to go with you because she needed a couple things at the store. It was just after the last bell rang.”

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Stiles says. He grabs his phone and dials Lydia. It immediately goes to her voice mail. “Okay, this, this is bad,” he says, trying to stay calm. It can’t be as bad as it seems. He hasn’t felt any distress or pain down the bond – although he supposes it can’t be trusted. Just because Stone won’t try the same trick twice doesn’t necessarily mean that Jackson wouldn’t. He pulls out his laptop and starts typing rapidly. They all use a shared password to their phone, now, so any of them can be looked up remotely if they go missing. But Lydia’s doesn’t come up. It’s not turned on.

“We’ll track her by scent,” he decides. There’s no time to waste dicking around. “Derek, Erica, you’re with me. Allison, Scott, you two stay here in case she shows up. Call me if you hear from her. And call Isaac and Boyd, tell them I want them back here ASAP.”

“Okay, I’ll – ” Scott starts, but he’s interrupted as Stiles’ phone rings.

He looks down at it, hoping that it’s Lydia, but it’s not. The number is familiar, but not entered into his phone with a name. He jabs the ‘accept button’ and foregoes his usual creative greetings. “Hello?”

“Hey, uh, Stiles?” The voice is likewise familiar. It takes Stiles a moment to place that it’s Danny.

“Hey, Danny, what’s up?” he says, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Look, uh . . . I think you might want to come pick Lydia up.”

“Lydia’s with you?” Stiles asks, startled. All the other pack members look over at him, similarly taken aback.

“Yeah. Well, sorta,” Danny amends. “I came over to Jackson’s, we were going to study for that big history exam we have tomorrow, only Lydia’s here and they were kinda . . . look, you’d better just come get her, okay?”

“I’ll be right over,” Stiles says. Explanations can wait. He hangs up and says, “Change of plans. Lydia’s at Jackson’s, and whatever’s going on there, Danny’s worried enough that he called me to come get her. Same groups, we’ll be back in a bit.” He grabs his keys and runs out to the Jeep with Erica jogging behind him and Derek, who had never bothered to shift back, trotting at his feet.

It takes about fifteen minutes to reach Jackson’s, by which point his anxiety level is reaching new highs. He doesn’t bother knocking, and he doesn’t care if any parents are home. What he sees causes him to nearly hit the roof. Lydia’s sitting on one end of the sofa, shirtless, although her bra is still on. The skirt she’s wearing has a zipper on the side, which has been pulled down. She’s staring somewhat vacantly into space.

Jackson is sitting on the other end of the sofa, with about three feet of space between them. He’s wearing only boxer shorts and a magnificent sulking expression.

There’s a blatant hickey on the side of Lydia’s neck, and nail marks on Jackson’s back.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Stiles snarls out.

Danny, who’s been standing behind the sofa as if ready to physically jump in if anything starts to happen, says, “Uh, yeah, like I said, came over to help Jackson’s study, found them rounding second and thought . . .”

“Why the fuck is it so weird?” Jackson snaps. “So we were making out.”

Danny gives him a light smack upside the head and confides reluctantly, “She seems really . . . spacey. Out of it. I’m worried that . . .”

“That he slipped her the mickey?” Stiles says, since Danny obviously can’t _quite_ bring himself to make the actual accusation. Danny winces but doesn’t protest.

“What the fuck ever, assholes,” Jackson retorts. “You just can’t handle the fact that she still wants to be with me.”

Stiles decides to ignore Jackson, since the only viable alternative is kicking the shit out of him. As much as it would be deeply satisfying, he doesn’t think it would be a good idea. He doesn’t know what sort of abilities Jackson has gained. In a fight, Lydia won’t be able to protect herself right now, to say nothing of Danny. So instead, he kneels down in front of Lydia. “Lydia, look at me,” he says. She blinks dazedly at him. “Hey, you,” he says gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Very . . . floaty,” Lydia says, her tone dreamy. “It’s nice. You should try it.”

“Maybe in my next life,” Stiles says. “C’mon, babe. We’re gonna get you home.” He stands up, and then, much to Danny’s surprise, picks Lydia up in a princess carry. She’s small for a girl, but still has to weigh at least a hundred twenty pounds. Stiles starts towards the door, then looks at Danny and says, “Thanks. For calling me.” Then he looks at Erica, and jerks his head towards Jackson. “Deal with him.”

Erica’s eyes glint in a way that Danny really does not like at all, but it’s hard to protest when his best friend just tried to roofie his ex-girlfriend. He watches Stiles go, and then Erica marches over to Jackson and grabs him by the chin. Jackson makes a slight noise of pain as she wrenches his head around so he has to look at her.

“If you ever touch her again, I will put you in the hospital,” Erica says. Her tone is flat, factual, uncompromising. “I will remove every hair from your groin using tweezers and Tabasco sauce. I will cut off your dick with an Exacto knife. _Slowly_. Am I making myself clear, you disgusting little twat biter?”

“Jesus, fine, whatever,” Jackson snaps at her. Erica lets him go, turns on her heel, and marches after Stiles and Lydia. Derek has lingered in the doorway to make sure Erica is safe during this confrontation, and Danny notices for the first time that the ‘service dog’ has not been on a leash this entire time. He shakes his head a little as the door closes behind them.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles stares at the wall of Deaton’s clinic. He feels like he’s been living there lately. The veterinarian has been nothing but kind and concerned since their arrival, but Stiles still feels like he’s being a pain in the ass. Not that there was much else they could do. He has no idea what sort of magic has been worked on Lydia and he’s not eager to wait for it to wear off. Deaton took one look at Lydia and had Erica carry her down into the cellar.

They’re down there for nearly half an hour before they come back up. In the meantime, the rest of the pack has been called and is waiting with them. Scott is sitting on the floor with Allison in his lap, clearly troubled. Isaac is pacing around while Boyd fidgets. Everyone stands as Deaton emerges from the cellar with the girls in tow. Lydia is walking now, but clearly a little unsteady, leaning heavily on Erica. She’s pale and looks somewhat nauseous. In the fuss, her shirt got left at Jackson’s, so she’s wearing the button-down that Stiles had been wearing over his T-shirt along with her skirt. Stiles rushes over to her, getting an arm around her waist, feeling an uncomfortable pang in his chest. “How are you feeling?”

“Really, really . . . awful,” she says.

Stiles hesitates. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Lydia leans into his shoulder. “The . . . bell rang. Jackson grabbed my books. He said . . . he wanted to talk to me. About the magic. He seemed . . . scared. He said he couldn’t control it and he needed help.” She struggles to find words for a minute. “I . . . walked with him for a minute. He said he just wanted to talk but he didn’t know what to say.” She shakes her head a little. “That’s it, that’s the last thing I remember.”

Stiles is careful to keep his expression carefully schooled into neutrality, although he knows that Lydia will hear the angry thud of his heartbeat as it increases. He looks at Deaton and says, “What about the protection spell?”

Deaton is quiet for a minute, then says, “Lydia, did he touch you at all?”

“He . . . he put his hand on my shoulder,” Lydia says. “I think. It’s pretty fuzzy.”

“My guess,” Deaton says to Stiles, “is that he took a hair off her shirt and used that to do the spell. That’s really the only way he would have been able to circumvent the protection spell that she’s wearing. That’s probably why he walked with her for several minutes rather than doing the enchantment right away.”

Stiles rubs his hands over his face. He looks at Lydia, feels the fine tremors that are shaking her. He steers them over to Erica, who pulls her into an embrace. Allison comes over to her other side, wrapping an arm around her. Then Stiles looks at Derek and says, flatly, “I am going to kill him.”

Derek shifts back to his human form, shrugging out of the vest. “We’d better be careful about how we do it,” he says.

“Guys!” Allison protests, albeit somewhat weakly. “It’s a little more complicated than that, I think . . .”

“No,” Stiles says. He suspects he should be feeling fear, or shame, or _something_ , about the fact that he’s now actively planning to commit murder. But all he feels is that white-hot rage running through him. “I really don’t think it is. Dammit, Allison, you weren’t there, you didn’t _see_. . .” He chokes the words off. “Do you _know_ what would have happened if Danny hadn’t happened to go over there?”

“Stiles!” Erica says sharply, more of a snarl than anything else. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid piece of shit!”

That startles him. Erica can almost always be counted on to side with him. Then he tracks her gaze to Lydia, who’s pale and shaking, and realizes what an insensitive clod he’s being. He swears underneath his breath. “Christ, I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I just . . .”

Derek gets an arm around his waist. “We can talk about this later,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “Right now, we should get Lydia back home.” Somewhat grudgingly, he adds, “Thank you for your help, Dr. Deaton.”

They go to Scott’s house. Stiles doesn’t want Lydia to feel crowded right now, and Derek’s apartment always makes him feel somewhat sardine-in-a-can-ish. He also doesn’t want to go home, because God forbid his father get word of what just happened. Although he personally would find it somewhat satisfying to see Jackson’s sorry ass get arrested, they can’t prove anything. There are no drugs in Lydia’s system, and no physical evidence beyond one hickey. Jackson will claim the encounter was consensual, and the whole thing would just be too traumatizing for Lydia to bear.

Scott’s mother is working the evening shift, so they have the house to themselves. “You,” Stiles says, steering Lydia onto the sofa, “need something chocolatey.”

She gives him a wan smile, clearly trying to keep herself together. “How, how about those triple chocolate cookies you make?”

“The ones that are more like brownies?” Stiles says. “Sure, I can do that.” Presuming that the McCall house has all the ingredients. He might have to improvise. But he goes into the kitchen nonetheless. Derek hovers, but Stiles redirects him. He needs space right now as much as Lydia does. “Derek,” he says quietly, “take the guys out back. Play some Frisbee or something. Leave Lydia with Allison and Erica. Okay?”

Derek gives a nod and trots up the stairs to grab some of the spare clothes that he keeps at Scott’s house. Then he takes the guys out into the backyard. They hesitate a little, but not very much. They seem to understand instinctively that they are not what Lydia needs right now. Stiles finds some semi-sweet chocolate at the back of the McCall’s cabinet and starts melting it in a pot on the stove.

In the other room, he can hear Lydia sobbing, little phrases coming out between gasps for breath. “I just – I never thought – I never thought he would do that to, to _me_ – ”

Stiles hears a snap and realizes that he’s broken the wooden spoon he was holding in half. He takes a deep breath and carefully wipes the chocolate into the pan. He wonders if it would have been better if they hadn’t told Lydia what had happened at all. Surely they could have come up with some explanation. Of course, it likely would have fallen apart once Lydia noticed the hickey.

“Do – do you think – was it _him_?” Lydia asks, her voice trembling. “I, I know that Deaton says the magic _changes_ people, that, that it corrupts them. This couldn’t have been _Jackson_ , right?” Hysteria is seeping into her voice. “Jackson wouldn’t, he would never . . .”

Stiles pushes his hands through his hair, leaving it standing in lopsided spikes. He’s suddenly, viciously aware that he has to get out of the house. That he’s going to lose his temper any second and the results are not going to be pretty. No matter what he says or does, it’s only going to upset Lydia. He looks down at the half-mixed ingredients and presses a hand against his mouth to muffle the scream that’s about to boil out of him.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Derek comes in from the backyard. “Come on,” Derek says in a low voice, pitched low enough that the wolves in the other room won’t hear. “You need to get out of here.”

“I told Lydia I would make cookies . . .”

“Lydia doesn’t care about the cookies,” Derek says, then repeats, “and you need to get out of here.”

Stiles swallows and fights for self-control. “The dough needs to sit for a half hour before it bakes, anyway. Let me just finish mixing it real quick.”

Derek scowls a little, but since Stiles seems to be holding on, he decides to allow it. He leans against the table and glowers at nothing while Stiles attacks the rest of the ingredients. A few minutes later, he helps Stiles by pouring in the melted chocolate while Stiles wields the mixer. When it’s done, Stiles sets it aside. For the moment, the noise of the mixer has drowned out Lydia’s crying. But as he moves the cookie dough to the counter by the stove, he hears her let out another sob of, “How could he _do_ that?” and Stiles nearly drops the bowl.

Derek catches it before it can hit the floor. He sets it on the counter and then takes Stiles by the shoulder and says, “Come on. Come with me.”

“Shit.” Stiles huffs out a breath and lets Derek steer him outside. They quietly close the door behind themselves. Scott, Isaac, and Boyd are standing around awkwardly in the backyard, ostensibly tossing a football around but really just feeling just as miserable as the rest of the pack.

Derek peels his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the porch. He stands with his feet slightly apart in a fighting stance. Then he gestures to Stiles, a little beckoning gesture. “Come on,” he says.

“Come on, what?” Stiles asks.

“You need to get rid of all this angry energy,” Derek says. “So you’re going to try to kill me for a bit.” He sees the doubtful look on Stiles’ face and says, “Just think of when you first met me and how much you wanted to kill me then.”

Over the course of the next hour, Stiles gets knocked flat more times than he can count. He attacks Derek over and over again, with mindless, relentless rage. He does it with bare hands, his fists and his feet his only weapons. Derek takes it easy on him at first, but before long even the werewolf is fighting to protect himself. When it becomes clear that it will take a while for Stiles to wear himself out, Boyd quietly goes inside to finish the cookies.

Finally, Derek knocks him down and he doesn’t get back up. He just lies on the ground, gasping, staring at the sky, which is starting to darken. He rolls onto his side and spits blood out of his mouth. He’s going to have some spectacular bruises, but he knows that Derek was careful, that most of them will be hidden. After a few minutes huddled up there, he feels Derek sit down next to him. “I couldn’t protect her,” he says, and now he’s the one crying, no matter how much he tries to hold it back. “He took her right out from underneath all our noses and I couldn’t protect her.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, because he knows there’s nothing that he can say, that all the logic in the world won’t make Stiles feel any better. He just sits there with his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, waiting for the worst of it to pass.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jackson. I'm not changing his "origin story", parents killed in car crash, et cetera, but I am changing how much he knows about it. Actually I'm not sure how much Jackson knows about it in canon. He seems to resent his parents for adopting him, which would imply that he thinks his biological parents gave him up... so I'm going to say that that's what he thinks, regardless of what happened in actual reality. More on this later.

 

By the time Stiles has gotten his shit together and gone inside, Lydia has gotten her own hysterics out of her system and is calm and composed again. She doesn’t want to talk about it, she says, and would rather pretend things are normal. So they eat cookies and watch television and occasionally do some homework. Stiles isn’t sure he feels calm enough to cook, so they order Thai food because Lydia loves Thai food.

None of them sleep well, and he feels just as angry the next morning as he did the night before. He takes a few deep breaths and pushes everything down. He hopes that Harris doesn’t mess with him today; he doesn’t think that he could handle it.

Jackson isn’t in school again. Stiles presumes that the amount of sorcery it took to slip a magical mickey probably wore him out. He thinks that this might be an excellent time to go to his house and kill him, but then decides he should probably wait at least twenty-four hours before doing anything and give himself time to calm down. “Yeah, why not,” he mutters, low enough that only Derek will hear. “That way it’s _guaranteed_ to be considered premeditated.”

Derek sneezes and doesn’t otherwise respond. The secondary problem with killing Jackson, Allison had reluctantly pointed out the night before, after Lydia was asleep, was that she didn’t know how her father would react. If there was still a chance Jackson could be saved, then killing him could very possibly break the truce they had – both with hunters in general and Chris Argent specifically.

Stiles respects Chris, and he doesn’t want to piss the man off. But he has to admit that Allison has a point, that things may not be as simple as removing Jackson from the equation. But he also can’t help but think of to what Deaton had said about how his pranks would escalate. He decides to swing by the clinic after school. When he mentions this to the others, Lydia wants to go with him. “I just want to talk with him about this magic stuff,” she says. Stiles isn’t sure that’s a great idea, but he’s not really inclined to let Lydia out of his sight right now, so it works out.

It’s a little crazy at the clinic; someone’s dog swallowed part of a blanket and needed emergency surgery. Stiles and Lydia end up sitting for almost two hours, quietly doing homework in the lobby, while they wait for Deaton to have time to talk to them. He looks tired and a little frazzled when he waves them back.

“Look,” Stiles says, launching right in, “I have done my absolute best to be respectful of the stake that you have in this. Of the fact that you and Stone know each other from way-back-when, of whatever debt you owe him. But this shit is rapidly crossing into ‘completely unacceptable’ territory. And there must be _something_ we can do.”

Dr. Deaton gives a little sigh. “I understand your frustration, Stiles, but I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

“I have a question,” Lydia says. She knots her hands together in front of herself and says, “How much of what happened yesterday . . . how much of that was Jackson in control of?”

“That’s a very difficult question to answer,” Deaton says.

“Okay,” Lydia says. She takes a breath and says, “Understand that if the next thing that comes out of your mouth is some kind of cryptic bullshit, I am going to kick you in the crotch.”

Stiles arches his eyebrows at Lydia and resists the urge to say that he couldn’t have said it better himself. Deaton looks similarly nonplussed. He clears his throat and says, “The _inclination_ to do what he did had to have come from Jackson somehow. But most likely, he never would have done it if he hadn’t been corrupted by the black magic. Magic . . . makes you feel like you can have anything you want. That there’s nothing out of reach. It’s an intensely powerful, pleasurable feeling. Jackson is the one who wanted you, but it’s the magic that told him that he could have you.”

Lydia lets out a breath. “Thank you,” she says. “That means I don’t have to kill him. Only break his nose.”

“I’ll help you with that,” Stiles says grimly. He looks back at Deaton and says, “I am serious. I don’t give a fuck about your debt to Stone. I don’t give one fuck, two fucks, red fucks, or blue fucks. You need to help us stop _Jackson_. I’ll worry about Stone later. He’s using Jackson as a pawn, and in addition to the fact that it’s pissing me off, it’s hurting Jackson, who has _nothing_ to do with this. Yeah, he’s a jerk. Yeah, it’s his own fault that he didn’t tell Stone to piss off when Stone offered him phenomenal cosmic power. I don’t even have time to get into all the different ways I want to kick Jackson’s ass right now. Tell me what to do with him.”

“The best thing you can do is try to separate him from you physically,” Deaton says. “As long as he can get near you, he can do things like steal Scott’s ring and pick hairs off Lydia’s shirt.”

“Oh, right, that’ll be so easy,” Stiles says. “It’s not like he goes to school with us or anything.”

“You asked for my advice,” Deaton says evenly. “There it is.”

Stiles has to admit that Deaton has a point. The main reason why Stone chose Jackson (he presumes) was because Jackson has access to them in a way that he doesn’t (with a possible side order of ‘they might kill me, but they won’t want to kill their classmate’). If they could just get Jackson _away_ from them, it would solve a lot of their problems. Of course, that’s going to be a lot easier said than done.

There’s one option which occurs to him just as they’re pulling back into his driveway. It’s not an option he particularly likes, or is anxious to share with anyone. But as a last-ditch resort, or even a temporary stop-gap measure, it has merit. He sits down at the kitchen table with his father, who’s drinking a cup of coffee and doing the crossword puzzle. Derek settles at his feet, while Lydia goes into the living room to find the others.

“What on earth happened yesterday?” Stilinski asks him. “It’s felt like a funeral in here.”

“Jackson magicked Lydia up and tried to get lucky,” Stiles says, and his father reacts as if someone had slapped him. He’s halfway out of his chair when Stiles grabs him by the wrist. “Don’t,” he says. “We can’t prove anything. _Believe_ me, if arresting him was an option, I would have told you right away.” He waits while his father reluctantly settles back into his chair. “Dad . . . the day is gonna come soon when I am going to have some really uncomfortable choices to make.”

Sheriff Stilinski sighs. “What to do with Jackson.”

“His spells are going to keep escalating,” Stiles says. “It’s happening fast. I don’t know if we can save him at this point. We may just have to stop him. We may . . .” He swallows and says it. “We may have to leave.”

“Leave for where?” Stilinski asks, and then gets what Stiles is saying. He doesn’t just mean ‘leave Beacon Hills’. He means ‘leave the mundane world’. It’s something that’s come up once or twice before. That eventually, Stiles is going to have to leave in order to keep the supernatural world hidden away from the mundane. If Jackson can only be stopped by being killed, then Stiles is theoretically justified in killing him. But that’s not something they can put in front of a jury. And he knows that Stiles would run before he allowed himself to be arrested.

“I don’t know where we would go,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “There’s a reason that the Hales lived on dozens of acres of land in the preserve. Or that the Steele family owns miles of territory in the Sierra Nevadas. A lot of the good land is staked out by born wolf families. But it would be nice to go somewhere . . . quiet. Somewhere that we would have privacy and room to run.”

Stilinski sighs. “Look,” he says, “I want you to understand something. I’ve done my best to support you through all of this supernatural bullshit. And if you think for one instant that you and your pack are going to sneak out in the middle of the night because it’d be easier that way, I will hunt you down, and I will ground you until you’re in adult diapers and using a cane. Is that clear?”

Stiles can help but smile at that. “Okay,” he says. “Understood.”

“And when you’ve got proof of what Jackson is doing . . . you call me,” Stilinski says.

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Several days later, Stiles is sitting on the bench in the locker room after a rigorous lacrosse practice, tying his sneakers, when he looks up to find Danny standing next to him. The older teenager is clearly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, but he says, “Hey. I’ve gotta talk to you.”

“So talk,” Stiles says.

“In private,” Danny adds.

Stiles considers for a moment, and then nods. He doesn’t like splitting up from his pack, but he has a suspicion he knows what Danny wants to talk to him about, and it’ll be better not to have an audience for that. He stands up and shoulders his bag. “Hey, Scott,” he says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” To Danny, he adds, “Walk with me.”

Scott glances over and then gives a nod. “Isaac and I will wait here,” he says. Derek had gone home after school with the girls. He can’t really do much at lacrosse practice besides sit on the sidelines anyway, and Lydia has been tense and anxious lately. It’s not that the girls can’t protect themselves, but Derek has more experience and strength than any of the others, so he reluctantly allowed Stiles to appoint him as Lydia’s shadow, at least when he isn’t glued to Stiles himself.

Somehow Scott’s statement doesn’t surprise Danny much. None of them really do anything alone anymore, and Scott’s ‘captain’ attitude never carries off the field with Stiles. What does startle Danny a little was Stiles’ easy command of ‘walk with me,’ as if he would automatically obey. That sort of confidence is relatively new to Stiles, and it’s exactly why he went to Stiles rather than any of the others. Well, that and because he knows Stiles is smart.

So he walks, because strange things follow Stiles and his friends around like a cloud, and something at least as weird is swallowing Jackson whole. Danny knows that he needs help, and he doesn’t know where else to turn. “So, something’s going on with Jackson,” he says, once they’re outside and out of earshot from anybody else. He keeps his hands jammed in his pocket and his gaze facing forward. “Something bad. Something that’s making him even more of an ass than usual. And I can’t help but think that you either know what it is or can help fix it.”

Stiles lets out a sigh that’s kind of a huff. “Yeah, like Jackson needs more reasons to be a douchebag? He’s tormented me and my friends since third grade. Why do you suddenly care?”

“Because he’s suddenly _different_. He’s worse.” Danny’s shoulders hunch a little. “Jackson is a lot of things, but he’s not someone who roofies his ex-girlfriend or refuses to talk to me for days on end.”

Stiles opens his mouth to deliver his own opinion on whether or not Jackson would be capable of doing such a thing, then thinks better of the idea. “Okay, yeah, well,” he says, “no offense to you or anything, but I’m not feeling a lot of sympathy for him at the moment. And I don’t see why you’re coming to me. What can I do about Jackson being a bigger dick than usual?”

“You can start by telling me what’s going on,” Danny says, his temper starting to fray. “Look, you hate each other, and he’s an asshole, and he most likely deserves every ounce of loathing you want to dish out. But he’s still my best friend. Last time I checked, you didn’t hate _me_ , so I’m asking you to help me.”

“Okay, look,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over the back of his head, “I hate to say this, but I sort of have to: are you sure you want to know? Because if you start down the rabbit hole, you might not like how deep it goes. Is Jackson really worth that?”

Danny stops walking for a minute. Then he nods. “Yeah. Because I’m worth it. If I walk away now because I couldn’t balls up, I’d never be able to live with myself.”

Stiles studies him for a long moment, a sharp, piercing gaze that seems to see everything. Then he lets out another breath. “Okay. So. Jackson’s been more pissy than usual for the last year, which I’m sure you’ve noticed. Basically because the nerdy kids are just as popular as him if not more so now, Lydia’s not pining for him the way she should be, Allison picked Scott over him, and oh yeah, we wouldn’t let him into our werewolf pack.”

“He doesn’t even like you, why would he want to join your . . . wait, did you say werewolf?” Danny runs Stiles’ statement through his head again. It still sounds like werewolf.

“Yep. You remember at the end of our freshman year when Scott was a skinny asthmatic nerd who didn’t even have a prayer of making the team at all, let alone first line?” Stiles says. “And then you remember his performance at the beginning of sophomore year? Well – _you’re_ a goalie. You know how awesome that show was.”

Danny nods in admiration. “So . . . you’re all . . . werewolves?” It should be difficult to believe, but somehow it isn’t. He _should_ be making the automatic assumption that Stiles is just yanking his chain, but he’s not. For one thing, Stiles is dead serious. Not even a hint of laughter. For another, it’s the first thing Danny has heard in six months that might _actually_ explain everything. “Even Lydia?” He shakes his head. “Wait, how does that work? Because in my head, I’m seeing a hulking monster, and Jackson wouldn’t want anything he couldn’t control.”

“Yeah, Jackson and his control issues.” Stiles shakes his head a little. “Only about half of what you’ve heard in popular culture is true. Yeah, they can shift into a wolfy form, but they keep their heads when they do it. Kind of like, uh, Twilight werewolves? I think? Though I haven’t read the books so I’m really just basing that on what I’ve read on the internet. And I’m not a werewolf, by the way. Neither is Allison.”

“If you aren’t a werewolf, why are you in charge?”

“Oh, man,” Stiles says, and laughs a little. “Is it that freakin’ obvious?”

“Uh, yeah. You may as well be carrying a sign.” Danny gives him a somewhat wry smile. “I mean, maybe it’s just because I knew you and Scott reasonably well and I know Lydia really well, but yeah. Obvious.”

“Well, I’m the alpha of the pack,” Stiles says. “How that happened is a really long story and not at all relevant to the current situation. Long story short: Jackson saw how the turn had affected Scott. How he was stronger and faster, how he suddenly got the hot girl. Of course, it wasn’t enough for Jackson that he was _already_ the star of the lacrosse team and dating the most gorgeous girl in school. He just had to have it all. So he threatened Scott and tried to get Scott to help him get turned. Longer story short, it never happened, and then I took over the pack and told Jackson it never would.”

“And when was that, exactly?” Danny asks. He has what feels like a million questions, but in the end most of them are just curiosity and not related to the topic at hand.

“Last winter. January-ish.” Stiles shrugs a little and says, “Remember when it was just the four of us hanging out? Before Isaac and Erica started hanging with us, too? In there. Then we started adding to the pack. First Isaac. Which, of course, just pissed Jackson off worse.”

“When you wanted a word alone with him and had to explain how puking in front of Isaac’s house wasn’t your ‘first gay experience’.” Danny ponders. “So what this really means is that Jackson should be operating on an even level of dickishness to you. Why has it suddenly skyrocketed?”

Stiles sighs. “And here’s where the rabbit hole takes a nasty twist. Are you able to accept the fact that, in supernatural circles, I am actually regarded as something of a badass?”

“Sure. If I can accept werewolves, I can accept that. I should probably mention here that before the evening is over, I want to see a werewolf.” And if Stiles _is_ just jerking him around, Danny makes an inward resolution to punch the other teenager in the face.

“Yeah, okay, that can be arranged,” Stiles says, without missing a beat. “But dude, actually, it’s true. See, I’ve sort of gotten a few people put in jail. Like that thing where people were shooting at us in the woods last summer? Yeah, those were werewolf hunters.” He sees Danny mouth ‘werewolf hunters’ and shake his head a little, like he can’t quite believe he’s having this conversation, but the other teenager doesn’t argue. “A couple of their big shots, well, I got them into all sorts of trouble. And sometimes werewolves decide they want to come take my territory and that’s obviously unacceptable, so some big nasty werewolves may have, uhm, died on my territory and although I was not always directly responsible, I guess I have sometimes had a hand in it, and since I’m the alpha around here it gets parked on my doorstep anyway.”

“Okay. I can swallow that. Sort of.” It’s really weird to hear Stiles talk about how it’s unacceptable for others to be on his territory. Like he’s actually marked it out, like a wolf or an alley cat.

“So now this sorcerer – yeah, there are sorcerers – has come into town and decided that he’s going to play Moriarty to my Holmes. Seriously, he’s just declared himself my nemesis, because apparently he really, _really_ wants a good asskicking.”

“He does know that Holmes is the prettier one, and also the one that gets up at the end, right?” Danny waves a hand, clearly trying to recover from the sudden distraction of so many attractive Sherlock Holmes’ in recent culture. “So where does Jackson figure into this?”

“He’s started teaching Jackson black magic,” Stiles says, and sees Danny blink at him, jaw slightly ajar. “Yeah, I know, but apparently almost anyone has the potential, though some have more innate talent than others. And Jackson, of course, has leapt at the chance to get back at me and my pack for all the perceived wrongs that he’s suffered. While Stone can’t exactly march onto school grounds without looking like some kind of creeper, Jackson can get close to us, and I can’t _stop_ him. Not unless I’m willing to either out him as a dark sorcerer, and I’m sure we can all imagine how well that would go over, or do something even more drastic, like put a fucking bullet in his face.”

Danny jerks to attention. After a moment of just looking at Stiles, he says, “You’re not kidding, are you. Killing him is totally an option in all of this. Isn’t it.”

“I don’t want to,” Stiles says. He meets Danny’s gaze squarely and continues flatly, “well, I kinda want to, in my weaker moments, but anyway, yeah, I will if I have to.”

“Holy crap.” Danny just blinks at Stiles, who’s suddenly not the spastic kid he’s used to sitting next to in physics. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. First I need some tangible proof to tell me I’m not losing my mind, or that you aren’t playing some kind of joke on me. Then we need to talk about how to get Jackson away from this guy, because no one is killing him.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and heads back towards the locker room. “I don’t get you and Jackson, you know that?” he says, pushing the door open and going back inside.

“I’m not asking you to,” Danny says as he follows. “I’m not even going to try to justify his behavior because I know he’s an asshole most of the time. But he’s come through for me when I needed him, and I won’t do anything less.”

Stiles’ jaw sets in an expression that betrays his anger. “That bastard has _everything_ , but it wasn’t enough for him. He had to try to take this away from me.”

“Yeah, because he thinks the moment he’s not _perfect_ , this set of parents will get sick of him and dump him like his birth parents did.” Danny’s also clearly frustrated and angry, and he doesn’t appreciate having to air Jackson’s dirty laundry. “I’m not saying it’s fucking rational, or that you deserve any of the crap he’s given you, but he’s screwed up. Whether he has a right to be or not doesn’t change the fact that he is and I’m _sorry_ , okay?” Danny would stand and apologize on Jackson’s behalf for hours if he has to, but it’s clear that he won’t be giving in any time soon.

Stiles gives him a rather thoughtful look, then just says, “Huh. Okay.” He raises his voice a little and says, “Hey, guys, we’re heading home. Danny’s coming with.”

Scott and Isaac both look up from what they’ve been occupying themselves with: Scott on his phone and Isaac with a book. “Uh, okay,” Scott says, “but why? I mean, no offense, dude, but yeah. Why?”

Isaac just lifts his hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he says, standing and gathering up his things.

To Scott, Stiles says, “Because werewolves.”

Scott eyes the two of them for a long moment. “I’ll just go get my bag, then,” he says.

The group stays quiet on their way out to the Jeep, and don’t talk again until they’re on the road. Then Stiles says, “Do you want me to keep talking? Or should I just shut up until you’ve seen a real live werewolf?”

“I think I need to see the werewolf thing first, or things are just going to start getting filed under ‘interesting plot ideas for the fantasy novel I will never write’,” Danny decides.

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter, turns up the radio, and steps on the gas. They reach the Stilinski house a few minutes later. The rest of the pack, not having lacrosse practice, has already gathered there. Stiles breezes inside and then thumps against Derek’s back where he’s sitting, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders. “Hi,” he says. “We have company.”

Derek lifts the pencil away from the sketchbook a second before Stiles impacts against him. He’s curled up in the plush chair that mysteriously appeared in the living room one day, and he’s appropriated one end of the coffee table for some of his pens and colored pencils. He tips his head back, cheek rubbing against Stiles’, and then lets his head rest against Stiles’ shoulder. “Who?” He inhales through his nose and cocks an eyebrow. “Your hacker friend?”

Danny watches all of this, feeling a little awkward just standing there, and also wondering if his gaydar is broken. He hadn’t pegged Stiles. Stiles strikes him as a ‘fun experimentation on occasion’ sort of guy, not an ‘I have a cuddle routine with a hottie’ sort of guy.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You know, he’s friends with Jackson. He called us to pick up Lydia the other day.” These formalities dispensed, he lets go of Derek and goes to greet his other pack members in the usual fashion. Danny watches in rapt interest. He’s seen this at school, but it’s different here. They all seem more comfortable, and there’s less show. Erica isn’t as flirty. Boyd stays pressed close to Stiles for a little bit longer than would be socially acceptable. It’s just little things that he wouldn’t even notice if he weren’t looking for them.

Derek stands up and sets his sketchbook on the coffee table. Today’s drawing involves an old, crumbling house, a tree, and birds. He turns to look at Danny, who startles a little. “Whoa. Your cousin, Not-Miguel.” The man is still just as smokin’ hot as Danny remembers, but a lot less angry looking.

Stiles lets out a snort. “Yeah, actually, his name is Derek, and he’s totally not my cousin. Derek, Danny. We need to show him a werewolf or two.”

“Is this heading to a family dinner, or are we just talking about dealing with Jackson?” Derek asks.

“Oh, Jesus,” Stiles says. “Guys, you absolutely cannot try to adopt Danny. We’ve got enough issues with Jackson right now, without stealing his best friend. This is a strategy session only. Everyone clear on that?”

There’s a chorus of agreements and some pouty faces. Lydia, however, walks over to Danny and wraps her arms around his waist, giving him a tight hug. “Thank you,” she says. “For what happened the other day.”

Danny’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and he hugs her back just as tightly. “You’re welcome. But you know you don’t have to thank me. You’d do the same for me.” After a moment, he leans in and half-whispers, “Am I actually in danger of being adopted by a werewolf pack?”

His tone is mostly joking, but Lydia takes him seriously. She lets go and backs away, then says, “Danny, we would have adopted you ages ago if it weren’t for Jackson.” She gives him a pretty smile and then points across the room, where Scott and Isaac have both shifted.

Danny doesn’t answer her because he’s too busy taking startled steps backwards. “Whoa! Warn a man!”

“You _asked_ to see werewolves,” Stiles reminds him. “They can do full wolf form, too. You wanna see?” he asks, and Derek stands up, peeling his shirt off.

Danny grins. “I would love to see . . .” He cuts himself off when he sees Derek start to strip, and throws up a hand to block his own view. “Not you. I can’t take that, sir; I will climb you like a tree.”

Several people burst into startled laughter, including Stiles. Derek just looks vaguely discomfited, but pulls his shirt back on nonetheless. Instead, it’s Erica who whips off her clothes and shifts into her full wolf form, which is a light brown with sandy blonde streaks, and somewhat smaller than most of the boys. She pads forward to sniff at Danny’s hand.

Without thinking, Danny holds his hand out the same way he would to any curious, friendly canine. Then he drops down to a crouch on his heels to really look at her. “Oh, wow.” While he’s staring, Lydia’s pulls her dress over her head and changes forms as well. She nudges at Danny’s elbow. Danny turns towards her and raises a hand, but then pauses. “Is it okay to pet, or is that rude?”

Derek gives a little shrug. “Petting is fine. Just don’t actually try to hold us by the scruff of the neck, and keep your hands away from our throats, and you’ll be good.”

“But don’t adopt him!” Stiles says loudly. Erica turns and gives him a lolling grin. “I mean it!”

Erica responds by cramming her head into Danny’s chest, only to be shoulder checked by Lydia trying to get there first. Danny loses his balance and falls over. Stiles throws his hands up in the air in mock exasperation and says, “Okay, guys, when you’re quite finished licking Danny’s face, I’m gonna be in the kitchen thinking serious thoughts.”

A couple of minutes later, Derek follows Stiles into the kitchen and boosts himself up to sit on the counter. He figures it’ll only be a matter of time before he’s given something to peel for dinner. “So, this complicates things.”

“Mm,” is all Stiles says in reply, his forehead creased as he measures out dried herbs into a bowl.

Derek waits until he’s done doing whatever complicated cooking thing he’s doing. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, and then amends, “that’s pertinent to the situation.”

“I feel like a complete psycho for including ‘kill Jackson’ on the list of possible solutions,” Stiles says glumly. “Dude. You should have seen the look on Danny’s face.”

“It is a possible solution. A viable one, even if unpleasant.” Derek pauses. “In the moral sense. Putting that aside,” he continues, making a hand motion as if he were brushing something away, “you’re not a psycho. But you are living with a different sort of reality than most high school students. One that I think is pretty normal for the supernatural world, because this _doesn’t_ seem weird to me.”

“If I’m counting on _you_ to tell me when things are weird, I’m really in trouble,” Stiles says. He sighs and starts sprinkling the herb mixture over the chicken he’s placed in a baking dish. “I don’t know why Danny puts up with Jackson. It’s none of my business. But he doesn’t want me to kill his friend. Not only do I like Danny as a person, but we owe him pretty big time for what happened with Lydia. On top of that, if we actually kill Jackson, that puts us in the red with the hunters, where I absolutely do not want to be. So we’ve got to find some sort of workable solution.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’m basing this assessment on my parents.” Derek doesn’t talk about them often, but sometimes they come up, and he’s getting better at not changing the subject when they do. “I remember hearing them have this sort of conversation every now and then. What to do with an omega that was causing too much trouble, or someone else that was threatening the pack. You pick a fight, sometimes you have to be prepared for the consequences.” Derek’s quiet for a long minute, possibly having exhausted his supply of words for the day. He reaches into the next day’s supply. “But we do owe Danny a debt and I don’t want to piss off the hunters. Not over Jackson’s sorry ass, of all people. Do you think Danny can help us?”

“I think he’s willing,” Stiles says. “I guess we’ll have to see.” He opens the oven and slides the tray of chicken inside. “You want to go rescue him?”

“Sure.” Derek slides off the counter and makes his way into the living room to see Danny laughing in amongst the wolves, while Allison stands off to the side with her phone up, obviously filming. He gives the entire mess a wry look. “What part of ‘don’t adopt him’ was so hard to understand?”

“We’re only adopting him a little,” Allison says, giving Derek a cheerful smile.

Derek reaches into the pile, curls a hand underneath each of Danny’s upper arms, and lifts him clear out of the pile and up until he’s at standing height. Danny just hangs there, stunned, until Derek says, “You can put your feet down.”

“What?” Danny asks, a little dazed, a stupid smile on his face. “Oh. Feet. Right.” His shoes hit the floor.

“Derek, you’re not allowed to touch him anymore,” Lydia says, shifting back and sitting on the floor, completely naked and not at all shy about it. “You’re going to break his brain.”

Derek scowls at her. “And what is this ‘we’re only adopting him a little’? I might remind you that your _alpha_ gave you instructions not to adopt him at all.”

The wolves have the good grace to look shame-faced. Isaac tucks his tail between his legs and Erica whines. Allison gives a little wince. Lydia bites her lower lip and mumbles something that might be an apology.

Derek nods at them. He’s made his point, they acknowledged it and gave in. It’s done and over with. Then he sighs and looks at Lydia, because this has to be hardest for her. Danny was already her friend. He’s basically part of her old pack; of course she wants to bring him into this one. He crouches down and smoothes a hand over her hair and then her cheek. “Stiles is right, though,” he says, looking at all of them. “We can’t afford to drive a wedge between Jackson and Danny right now.”

Danny stands there quietly, frankly stunned. So far, ‘werewolf’ had seemed to mean ‘cool powers’. Sure, there were things Stiles had said about territory and death threats that sounded a little too serious for his liking, but he was still trying to process so he had mentally filed that for now. But then Derek had come in and made a pointed comment about instructions their alpha had given then. Not Stiles, but their _alpha_ , and it had affected all of them with the suddenness of Coach Finstock’s whistle. He might have been able to write that off, if it hadn’t been for Lydia. He knows her. She’s stubborn and proud. Lydia doesn’t cow before anyone. But here she is, looking down and apologizing. “Jesus.” Danny rubs his fingers over his eyes for a minute. Suddenly, none of this is a joke. At all. Jackson’s life is on the line and Lydia is actually wolf enough that her pack alpha has power over her.

Derek sees the look on his face and realizes that he freaked Danny out a little, but doesn’t apologize. Danny needs to realize that cuddling with friendly wolves is not what this is about. He jerks his head towards the kitchen and says, “Come on. Stiles wants to talk to you.”

Danny nods mutely and heads into the kitchen with Derek at his back. Once in there, he takes a deep breath to pull himself together and asks, “What’s the big deal about ‘being adopted’? I’m not about to abandon Jackson just because I have other friends. What am I not understanding?”

Derek goes back to his place on the counter by Stiles. “Being in a pack isn’t just that this is your group of friends. It’s more than friends, and for people who weren’t born into it, it’s more than family. There’s actual magic and power here aside from the ability to shift forms. There’s a bond. It pulls us together and makes us stronger and closer. Even those of us that are human. Your alpha isn’t just the person in charge of your pack, the person who sets the rules and gives the orders. He or she is the person who takes care of you, who you turn to when the chips are down, and it’s instinct to care for them as much as they care for you.” He gives a little shrug. “Jackson seems to hate Stiles, so that puts a stop on us inviting you into this pack.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Stiles says, pulling a bag of potatoes out of the refrigerator. “I mean, what you need to understand, Danny, is that Jackson got involved in this because he’s carrying around an enormous load of resentment for me and Scott. Because when someone offered him power, he couldn’t say no. He got himself into this trouble, and it’s going to be really fucking hard to get him out of it.”

“I’d ask why Jackson resents you, but sometimes he’s just . . .” Danny throws his hands up. “He just can’t stand not being the best. And it’s not just that. He doesn’t just have to be on top. If there’s room for improvement, he has to make it. He has to be perfect. It makes him so hard to live with. It makes it hard for him to live with himself. I’m not asking you to have sympathy, because I know he makes that hard, too. Trust me, I know that. Sometimes I want to punch him myself. Just tell me how I can help him get out of this.” He sighs and adds, “Maybe I’ll go back to banging my head against the ‘you need therapy’ wall again.”

“Dude, it might be too late for that.” Stiles leans his hands on the back of his chair and meets Danny’s gaze. “Using black magic, it _changes_ you. It gets under your skin and, and infects you. Power corrupts. I don’t like the guy, but even I find it hard to believe that the Jackson of three months ago would have done that to Lydia.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Danny agrees. “So I have to try to get that person _back_. Because sometimes infections can be cured, right? So give me a chance to try. Because if he was in his right mind, he would do the same for me.”

Stiles lets out a sigh and rubs his hand over the back of his head. He doesn’t like the idea of putting Danny in danger, but this is the first idea he’s had in a while that might actually get him somewhere. “Okay. Jackson’s the puppet. We need to get to the puppet master. How do you feel about going undercover?”

Danny gives a half smile. “Terrified?”

“Good,” Derek says.

Stiles seems to agree with Derek. “Okay. But are you willing?”

“Yeah. Especially if it lets you nail the guy who started this.” Danny is afraid, but he’s holding his ground. After all, he lets crazy people with sticks come charging at him several times a week. Sometimes they’re even from rival teams. He’s not about to back down without even seeing the enemy.

“Then talk to Jackson. Tell him you’ve figured out what he’s doing and you want to be a part of it.” Stiles gives a little shrug. “You know him better than us. Figure out a way to make it believable. But _do not_ challenge this guy. He’s been in town less than three weeks and he’s already nearly killed me _and_ Derek, and you have no idea how hard wolves are to kill.”

“Okay,” Danny says, giving Stiles a somewhat wide-eyed look. Then something occurs to him, while they’re on the subject of trauma. “Hey, not to be rude, but where’s your service dog?”

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter and just points at Derek, who makes his classic mild frowny face.

Danny opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. “Wow. Awkward. Nice disguise. Somehow, I think I should have guessed by now.”

“Given how many times I’ve heard ‘he looks more like a wolf than a dog’, then yeah, maybe,” Stiles says cheerfully, as he picks up the potatoes and starts scrubbing them in the sink. “But that should give you some idea of how serious this is. I literally have not been allowed out on my own since this guy showed up. Because when I was, this happened.” He turns and lifts his shirt to show his abdomen. The wounds are closed now, and fading, but it’s obvious from the marks how serious they must have been. Stiles hesitates, then adds, “But I wasn’t lying to you the other day. I actually did spend two days in a car trunk and I do actually have PTSD. It’s just that it was a werewolf who kidnapped me for werewolfy reasons, rather than, uh, whatever it was you imagined, which we don’t have to talk about.”

Danny takes a look at the scars and then swallows, suddenly understanding why Stiles has been refusing to shower or change where anyone could see him lately. He turns to Derek, feeling like he has to ask. “What about you? He nearly killed you, too?”

“Made me sick. Deathly sick. And we don’t get sick. I’ve _never_ been sick. It’s so reliable that most born wolves aren’t even vaccinated as infants or children.”

“Yeah, and we’re not talking ‘nasty case of the flu’,” Stiles chips in. “We’re talking ‘fever of a hundred and five, seizures, coughing up blood’. It was a voodoo doll. Seriously.”

“So this guy is playing for keeps. What’s going to keep me from going the same way as Jackson? Because I doubt this guy is going to let me go with ‘can I just, you know, watch?’” Danny didn’t think that there was anyone he hated, but he also knew that he wasn’t a saint.

“My advice is to _suck_ at it,” Stiles says. “But we’ll run this by our resident druid/sorcerer/veterinarian mash-up to see if there’s any sort of protections we can give you.”

“Dru . . . veter . . .” Danny just stops. “Some of those things frighten me more than others, and I’m not sure it’s the right things.”

“Preach,” Stiles says, nodding glumly.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels strangely calm to me....

 

The good news, Stiles says, is that Danny might get them a step closer to Stone, and hopefully he can work some sort of calming influence on Jackson. The bad news is that at this point, they’ve proven that Deaton is going to be pretty much useless when it comes to tactical advice. Dealing with the aftermath of the sorcery, yes. Preventing it or stopping it, not so much.

“I need fucking information,” Stiles says to his ceiling. “I need to know about this debt that Deaton owes Stone. Maybe there’s some way to circumvent it. Like, is it a magical bond? Or is it just that Deaton’s a decent guy and doesn’t want to fuck with someone who helped him out? Because if it’s the latter, I may seriously consider kicking his ass. There are limits to being a nice guy.”

“It has to have something to do with when they disappeared together,” Scott says, tugging on his lower lip.

“Right,” Stiles says. “They were both foster kids, they were both fucked up. They . . . seemed to find kindred spirits in each other. Stone was already a sorcerer at that point, if what he did to his caseworkers is any indication. I don’t know about Deaton. And since he won’t talk about it, I have no idea how to find out.”

“Do we know the circumstances of how he was found?” Allison asks.

“Nope,” Stiles says. “Dad couldn’t get any of his actual files. Well, I mean, I didn’t ask him to. I just told him to get me his public record, you know, what could be easily found on the internet.”

Scott looks at him sideways and says, “Maybe we should try.”

“I doubt it would help, to be honest,” Stiles says. “It’s not how he was found that matters. It’s what happened during the three days in between. And only two people know that. If I could talk to Stone . . . maybe I’d be able to goad him into giving me the information. But first I would have to find him.”

“Didn’t Holmes ever issue an invitation to Moriarty to come out and play?” Isaac asks.

“Sure, probably,” Stiles says, “but where would I send the invite?”

“Give it to Jackson,” Erica says. “Set it up to be all mysterious like. I bet he’ll take the bait.”

“Let’s see what Danny finds out first,” Stiles decides. He’s worried that it might take a while, but Danny apparently jumped right in, because he gets an e-mail less than an hour later.

‘Okay, I’m in. Jackson was pretty reluctant at first but I shamelessly pandered to his sense of superiority. He says the lessons are at midnight (ugh, could this guy be any more dramatic) and so I can come with him tonight. He won’t tell me where, though. I’m going to meet him at his place and then go with him. I don’t think it’d be a good idea to try to follow us. He seems really tense. Will update more tomorrow.’

So of course there’s absolutely no chance that Stiles is going to sleep, and he doesn’t even bother to try. He sets himself up writing a research paper about the history of electroshock therapy for some lazy college sophomore who thought Psychology 101 would be easy. Derek makes a half-hearted effort to convince him to go to bed, but everyone knows that it’s pointless.

It’s nearly two AM before Stiles’ phone makes the little ‘incoming text’ jingle, and he grabs it so quickly he nearly drops it. The message is from Danny. ‘Hey. I survived. They suspect nothing. More detail tomorrow. Totally wiped out.’

Stiles can breathe again, and he takes a minute to let the tension drain out of his body. Then he tucks the phone away, saves the progress on the research paper, and crawls into bed. He tosses and turns for a little while before drifting into sleep, and then very quickly, bad dreams. It’s clearly not a night where sleep is going to be fruitful, and when he wakes up for the third time, he gives up. He keeps waking the others with his squirming and whimpering, which is both embarrassing and annoying. To be fair, this is how most of his nights have been going lately. The nightmares are getting steadily worse.

He gets up, goes downstairs, and starts making muffins. The cookies are already long gone. After some debate, he settles on lemon poppyseed. The first batch is coming out of the oven when he hears the alarm go off upstairs. It’s silenced a few seconds later. He sets the timer on the oven and then goes to get dressed. The others are stirring. He throws on a T-shirt and jeans, jogs back downstairs, and starts making eggs.

The pack trickles downstairs in ones and twos. Several people frown when they reach the kitchen. Scott is the only one tactless enough to actually ask, “Everything okay?”

“You know, there was a time when I could make muffins without my motives being questioned,” Stiles grumbles. “How about ‘ooh, muffins, thank you, Stiles!’ I’m so unappreciated.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” Lydia and Erica say in unison, each leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“But seriously . . .” Boyd says.

Stiles sighs. “Yes, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well. It’s not a newsworthy event. Eat some breakfast.”

Everyone sits down and eats some breakfast, and stops asking questions about how long Stiles has been up. They pack up their school things, and Derek puts his little vest on, and they head to school. Stiles is obsessively checking his e-mail, waiting to hear from Danny, but there’s nothing. He’s afraid that he won’t be in school, but he is. He doesn’t share a class with him until fourth period, but he’s in economics with Erica, who texts Stiles to let him know that Danny’s there and looks okay.

During the classes they do share, and lunch, Danny doesn’t even look at him. Which Stiles is okay with. He sees Jackson smirk at him a few times and scowls back. It wouldn’t do for Jackson to feel like he isn’t winning. They want Jackson smug and complacent right now. Anything else, and Danny’s position could become very precarious very quickly.

It’s not until sixth period that he receives an e-mail from Danny, during which the other teenager has study hall. He sees that it’s somewhat lengthy, and reluctantly puts it away until after history is over. His last class of the day is Spanish, which is only a few doors down. He’ll have time to read the e-mail beforehand, and fortunately, Jackson doesn’t share that class with him.

He ducks out of the classroom with Derek on his heels as soon as the bell rings, plants his butt in his seat in Spanish, and pulls up the e-mail.

‘Hey. Last night was interesting. Stone didn’t seem to mind me being there. In fact, he actually got kind of, I don’t want to say excited, but maybe happy that Jackson wanted to bring a friend. I guess if he’s trying to piss you off by corrupting kids with black magic, the more the merrier?

As it turns out, we won’t have to worry about me being corrupted. I am not going to have to pretend I suck at this because I *do* suck at it. Hardcore. I couldn’t do jack shit the entire time – about two hours. Stone seemed to think it was pretty funny. He says that if he’s grading on a scale of one to ten, I’m about a one and a half. If I work really hard at it, I could maybe climb to a three. What an inspirational teacher. Even better than Finstock.

In case you’re curious, he says Jackson started as about a four, has worked his way up to about a five but is nearly a six. (Stone seems to have this whole grading system. I think it’s very important for him to know how superior he is to others.) Apparently it’s pretty typical for most people to jump two or three points once they’ve actually learned how to use magic. He, of course, is a nine. I’m surprised he didn’t make himself a ten, but he says he’s only ever met one person he would consider a ten, and that was a long time ago. Apparently he says he only started as a three or a four but worked his way up as high as he did because, and this is a direct quote, ‘the more you give yourself to the magic, the more it gives to you in return’. Creepy.

Actually the dude is pretty creepy in general. He smiles a lot, and it kind of makes me want to mace him.

Anyway, I asked if he still knew the guy who was a ten, and he said no. So then we were just doing magic for a while (God, it kills me to type that, you have no idea), or at least, Jackson was. It sounded kind of like mumbo-jumbo to me, and actually reminded me a lot of a yoga class I took when I was thirteen (just . . . don’t ask, okay, the instructor was really cute). A lot about concentrating and emptying your mind and focusing your energy. Only in yoga class, typically what happened is that I fell asleep, and here, Jackson like broke a tree branch with his *mind*, which was totally freaky.

Jackson was really pushing him for new spells that he can use that can be done without direct access to you guys. I guess you guys have some kind of protection spell or something? Stone says that as long as you have that, Jackson has to have something of yours if he wants to affect you directly. Either something that used to be part of you (hair, blood, ultra-creepy) or something that you own. But it can’t be anything, it has to be meaningful. Like, stealing your textbook wouldn’t work. That’s why stealing Scott’s Claddagh ring worked so well for him. And he told Jackson (and me) that he should get rid of anything like that. He says that’s why he moves around so much and never gets attached to a place or thing. Every time he moves, he *burns* everything he leaves behind. He says it keeps him from getting attached to physical things.

But he says ‘his way’ isn’t for everybody, because having ‘tokens of power’ can come in handy in other ways. I guess there are spells you can use to gain power (he says he’s done several) or you can make pacts with demons (yeah, demons, what the hell, dude) and a lot of times they’ll take a token in trade. Because that way they’re giving you power but they also have power over you.

Jackson was bitching saying that Stone had done a spell with pictures of you, and Stone got pissy with him and said a) that only worked because you didn’t have the protection spells back then, and b) Jackson’s still years away from being able to do a spell with *one* photo, let alone *eight*. Jackson got sulky (you know how he is) and Stone shut him down *hard*. Basically said, “if you don’t want to learn from me, then fine, keep being mediocre on your own” and went to leave, basically making Jackson apologize and ask (almost beg) Stone to keep teaching him. *Super* uncomfortable. This guy knows how to push Jackson’s buttons. It was seriously like watching an abusive dad try to leave his kid at the grocery store or something.

That’s all for now. Lessons are every night, so you may have to start doing my homework for me, Christ. I’ll keep you posted.

One more thing (unrelated). I went over to Jackson’s around eight, so I wouldn’t have to trek over there at midnight, we were watching the game and stuff. And who should I bump into but Mr. Harris? He was just leaving as I got there. I don’t know why he was there, but he shook hands with Jackson’s dad, who said, ‘Ok, I’ll look into it’ or something like that. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’ll bet it has something to do with your, uh, service dog. Harris *seriously* needs to get laid, or find a hobby, or something.’

Stiles reads through the e-mail twice before the bell rings, and then tucks his phone away. He almost wishes Danny hadn’t thrown that last paragraph in there. As much as he appreciates the head’s-up, it’s a distraction from the rest of the e-mail, which is what he should be focusing on. He should be thinking about tokens and pacts with demons and abusive sorcery teachers, but his mind unerringly latches onto ‘Harris is going to cause trouble for Dad’ and refuses to budge.

Spanish class has ‘conversational Fridays’, where the teachers calls on random students to talk about the weather, their plans for the weekend, the latest book they read, whatever they want, as long as it’s in Spanish. Fortunately, this means that Stiles doesn’t have to concentrate very much. There’s no lacrosse practice after school, but there _is_ a game at six PM, and it’s an away game, so he has to be back at the school at four thirty. He checks his watch as the last bell rings.

The pack’s new rule, in light of Jackson taking Lydia’s phone and texting an excuse to the others, is that they all gather in the parking lot right after school and decide from there who’s going where and with whom. Everyone wants to go to the game, of course, and they won’t have a lot of time to eat right beforehand, so after some debate, they decide they’ll just go hang out at their favorite pizza parlor until it’s time to go, playing video games and stuffing their faces.

Stiles goes with them long enough to update them on what Danny had said. Since he seems to be gathering real, helpful information, the pack agrees that they should wait on sending any sort of ‘come out and play’ message to Stone. “I wanna go see my dad for a bit before the game,” Stiles says. “I’ll catch you guys there?”

They won’t all fit in Allison’s car, so since Scott and Isaac will need to go the same place as Stiles eventually, to catch the bus to the game, they decide to go with him. But when he gets to the station, his father isn’t there. “There was a call from a shop downtown about some crazy shopper who was throwing things,” Sandy tells him. “We’re short today because Getty just went on maternity leave and Mullins has food poisoning, so your dad went himself. He should be back soon.”

Stiles paces around for a minute, then says, “Do you know if Mr. Whittemore was here today?”

“The DA?” Sandy looks at him, surprised. “Yeah, he came in around ten AM, talked with your dad a little while, and then left. I asked him what was up and he said it was nothing.”

This makes Stiles grind his teeth. He’s on the edge of apoplexy by the time his father shows up, hauling a middle-aged woman in handcuffs with him. One of the station crew hurries over to take her to holding, and then Stiles has to wait still longer while his father explains the situation to Sandy so she can get all the appropriate balls rolling. Only then does he turn to Stiles and say, “What’s up?”

“Oh my God,” Stiles bursts out, before the door can even swing shut. “What happened with Jackson’s father?”

Stilinski arches his eyebrows at his son, unimpressed. “You know, I would technically have the right to tell you that it’s none of your business,” he says, but lifts his hands in surrender when it appears that Stiles might explode. “Yes, Harris addressed his ‘concerns’ with Mr. Whittemore. You were exactly right in what you predicted he would do. He went to Whittemore and told him that I had ignored a complaint he had filed.”

“And?” Stiles demands.

“And I showed him the file. Would you like to see it?” Stilinski asks, ignoring the way Stiles’ grabby hands are already shoving stuff around on his desk. He takes out a manila folder and hands it over. There are only a few sheets of paper inside.

Stiles skims them quickly. It’s a report from Officer Berkland, who had taken Harris’ initial complaint. Then Carmichael’s report after talking to Derek. It’s an interesting read. Carmichael isn’t a great cop, but he’s thorough and meticulous.

‘Mr. Harris states that Mr. Hale approached him in a hostile manner and made threats to his well-being and livelihood. He states that is afraid for his person and would like to file a restraining order.

Per Mr. Hale, the conversation took place in a relatively public setting, a classroom at Beacon Hills High. He states that Mr. Harris has been harassing one of the students, a friend of his, and he went to ask Mr. Harris to cease doing so (Mr. Hale declined to name the student in question for his own protection, as he is a minor). He states that he did not touch Mr. Harris at any point or make any threats beyond involving his lawyer if the harassment continues. He provided a recording of the conversation (see attached transcript). That has been reviewed. Although Mr. Harris did request that Mr. Hale leave, no specific threats are made and at no point does Mr. Harris present as if he feels he is in danger.

Mr. Hale was advised that if, in the future, he feels someone is being harassed, he should report that to the police rather than attempt to handle the situation himself. He was advised that it would be for the best if he did not contact Mr. Harris again. Mr. Hale verbalized understanding and states that he has no desire to do so.

Mr. Harris was contacted and informed that the BHPD has found his complaint without merit and no restraining order will be granted. He was warned against exaggerating incidents to the police and asked not to contact Mr. Hale lest the situation escalate further.’

Stiles flips past that report to take a quick look at the transcript, which seems accurate to him. He looks up at his father and says, “Okay. So what then?”

“So Mr. Whittemore agreed that we had done our due diligence and he wasn’t inclined to pursue Harris’ case,” Stilinski says, and Stiles nearly deflates with relief. “Don’t forget, Whittemore’s not exactly a fan of Harris, either. Harris doesn’t so much as play favorites in class as play unfavorites. He’s harsh with everybody and then especially harsh with a select few. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jackson had complained to his parents about him a few times.”

“Okay.” Stiles rubs his hands over his face. “So everything’s okay?”

Stilinski hesitates, obviously thinks about saying yes, and then decides against it. “It isn’t over yet,” he says. “Whittemore told me that Harris had made it clear to him that if criminal charges weren’t an option, he would be filing a civil suit.”

“What!” Stiles shoots up out of his chair and starts pacing again. “That asshole, what the hell – ”

“Stiles,” his father says, trying to keep him calm, “it’s baseless. It’ll be thrown out of court. He’s banking on the fact that we didn’t document the investigation we did. Well, he’s banking on us not having done an actual investigation of his claim. But we did, we have it all written down, it’s fine.”

“But even just taking you to court will damage your reputation, your credibility with voters,” Stiles argues. He swallows hard and says, “Maybe we should just, just let it go. I mean, the pack bond is restored, Derek doesn’t _need_ to go to school with me anymore – ”

“Are you kidding?” his father asks, folding his arms over his chest. “You think ‘backing down’ is the appropriate response here? _You_? No. You’ve never backed down from a fight in your life, even the _numerous_ times when that’s what you should have done. This is not going to be the first.” He shakes his head a little and says, “Besides, this isn’t your fight. It never _has_ been. This is Harris trying to get back at me for figuring out he’d committed a crime. He’s using you to do it, and there are a number of ways in which I find that completely unacceptable. So your opinion on what’s going to happen here isn’t really relevant.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, then sees the glint in his father’s eyes. It reminds him somewhat of himself. He decides he’ll just shut up for a while, nods and mumbles, “Yes, sir.”

“Okay,” Stilinski says. “Derek, I would appreciate it if you could contact that lawyer you were talking about. I’d like to brief him on the situation and get some advice on where to take things from here.”

Derek gives a wolfy nod, and then shifts. Stiles digs Derek’s clothes out of his backpack and hands them over. Derek dresses quickly and then takes out his cell phone, which Stiles has also been carrying for him. He thumbs through his address book for a few minutes. While he’s doing that, Sheriff Stilinski checks his watch. “Don’t you have a lacrosse game to get to?” he asks.

“Yeah, Dad, but I – ”

“But nothing,” his father says. “It’s in Merced, right? I’ll see you there.” He reaches out and gives Stiles a quick hug.

Derek picks up Sheriff Stilinski’s desk phone and dials quickly. There’s a moment of silence before he says, “Yes, Keith Kolenberg, please.” A beat. “This is Derek Hale.” Another pause. “Thank you.” He waits patiently while he’s on hold. Stiles waits impatiently, still pacing around the room. “Hi, Keith, it’s Derek Hale . . . good, yourself? Great . . . listen, I’ve got a bit of a situation here I think I’m going to need your help with.” He gives the lawyer a brief synopsis of what’s going on. Then: “I’m going to put you on with Sheriff Stilinski. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

He hands the phone over to Stiles’ father, who takes it and greets the lawyer. Derek takes Stiles by the elbow and pulls him out of the office, with Stilinski waving them off. “Come on,” he says. “You’re going to be late for your game.”

Stiles sighs a little and then says, “Shift. I came in here with a dog, I have to leave with a dog.”

“Right,” Derek says, pulling off his shirt. He shifts and they join the others back out at the car.

“Look at it this way,” Scott says, “at least if Jackson’s playing lacrosse, he’s not playing with voodoo dolls.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “Try not to dislocate anything he uses regularly.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The lacrosse game helps Stiles burn off some of the angry, frustrated energy that’s been hovering around him like a cloud. He can’t exactly bring his service dog on the field with him, so after some debate, Derek decides to watch from the stands. He joins up with the rest of the pack, Sheriff Stilinski, and Melissa McCall.

Stiles scores twice, takes a shoulder in the gut, which really doesn’t help the still-healing injuries, and eventually gets benched after he ‘accidentally’ trips an opponent with his lacrosse stick. He makes a face but doesn’t argue too much. He would only get in trouble. Besides, they’re ahead by three points. The team can manage without him.

Merced is nearly forty minutes from Beacon Hills, so they don’t get back until almost ten o’clock. Sheriff Stilinski is feeling a little disinclined to let Stiles out of his sight, so they agree to have pack movie night at the Stilinski house. They make popcorn and lie around for a while, and most of them eventually start falling asleep in their wolf forms among the cushions. Stiles stares off into space, thinking, while Scott and Allison lazily make out on the sofa and Isaac and Erica quietly debate the merits of a Dr. Strange movie.

_Do you want the bite?_ Peter asks, and Stiles startles and shouts.

“What, what is it?” Derek demands.

“Nothing, I just . . .” Stiles shakes himself. “I think I dozed off and had a bad dream. That’s all.” He lifts himself out of the piles of blankets and cushions and says, “Gonna go make myself some tea.”

What he actually makes himself is coffee, and then he sits down at the kitchen table with his laptop. He’s been thinking about some of the things that Danny had said. Stone had only known one person he would consider a better mage than himself, and it was ‘a long time ago’. He wonders if he’s been thinking about Deaton and Stone’s relationship backwards. He had assumed that Stone was the more powerful, experienced sorcerer. But Deaton seems very powerful, in his own way, so what if he was wrong? What if Deaton was the one who had taught Stone how to use magic in the first place?

The idea has merit. Stone had started moving from foster home to foster home at the age of six. He had never stayed in one place for more than a few months. Where in there would he have learned to use magic? Of course, the same question could be asked of Deaton, but the veterinarian’s life was at least somewhat more stable. In a comparable time period, Deaton had gone through eight homes; Stone went through nearly two dozen. Eight is still a lot of homes to have as a growing child, but it means there had to be some he was in for several years.

Since Scott had said ‘maybe we should try’ to get more of Deaton’s records, Stiles considers that as tacit permission to snoop a little more. He pulls up each of Deaton’s homes and settles on the third as being the most likely. He was there from when he was seven until he was ten, so it’s a long time span at a formative age. He takes a stab and Googles his foster mother’s name.

Surprisingly, he hits pay dirt on the very first try. A woman named Krystal Moore, she owns a shop in downtown Chicago called ‘Eastern Winds’. Yelp has it listed as a ‘spiritual shop’, but from the website it’s pretty clear that it’s an occult shop and not at all ashamed of it. Stiles scrolls through their online catalog and sees a number of things he recognizes from Deaton’s cabinets.

If Deaton had been teaching Stone magic, then there had to have been some weird things going on around the foster home they were staying in. Stiles chews on his lower lip for a minute, thinking. Derek pads into the room and sits down next to him. “It’s one AM,” he says. “You should sleep.”

“Too late,” Stiles says, pointing to the half-empty mug of coffee, and Derek just sighs. “You go sleep. I’ll be in a little later.”

Derek grumbles but allows himself to be shooed away. Stiles starts typing again. He tries ‘weird news’ plus ‘Chicago’ and the year that Deaton and Stone had been in foster care together. There are tons of results, but none of them are particularly useful. Unfortunately, it was over twenty years previous, and the internet just wasn’t a thing back then.

“Okay, let’s try this,” Stiles says, and pulls up the website for the Chicago public library. He sifts through the directory before finding a few likely people and their e-mail addresses. Then he starts typing out a message. ‘I am a graduate student at the University of Chicago and I am doing my thesis on noteworthy events in Chicago of the past fifty years. I would like to be able to take a look at your microfilm/microfiche records of the Chicago Tribune. Unfortunately, I am disabled and not able to travel directly to the library. Is this information computerized, and if so, can it be accessed through your library website, or possibly e-mailed to me? Thank you in advance for any help you can provide.’

With that avenue a current dead end, Stiles puts that train of thought away. He starts looking through Deaton’s file again. Deaton might have been the talent, but Stiles still thinks that Stone was the instigator. Deaton might have been a fucked up kid, but Stone is a different sort of crazy. Stone has to have been the one who convinced Deaton to run away from the Saunders household – to do what?

Somehow, it had ended with Deaton in Stone’s debt.

“No,” Stiles says suddenly. “It doesn’t end _there_.” It ended when Deaton decided to completely turn his life around. He gave up the black magic. The way he talks about it reminds Stiles of a recovering addict. He’ll advise, and he seems comfortable protecting himself and healing the damage that black magic has done. But he never does _real_ magic, the way Stone does.

This is reinforced when Stiles goes back to the records from the veterinarian’s last home and finds that Deaton wasn’t ‘found’ after he ran away; he turned himself in. He didn’t go back to the Saunders’ house, but he went to a police station and asked for his caseworker to be called. So he had purposefully chosen to start a new life for himself.

Stiles refills his coffee mug and taps his stylus against the table. What had happened with Stone? Why had they parted ways? Had it been amicable or nasty? Where had Stone gone? If he had been hurt, why aren’t there any records of him being in the hospital?

Frustrated, aimless, he starts throwing random searches at Google in an attempt to turn up anything helpful. Boolean terms are his friend, even if Google uses strange variations, and one never knows what kind of information Google Fu can turn up. And what does turn up only makes the rabbit hole take another twist.

‘Alleged Killer Dies After Eleven Year Coma’. Stiles almost flips past it at first, not seeing how it’s connected, but then sees the text fragment underneath it. ‘. . . only other survivor was his son Sebastian Stone, age six at the time’. He realizes that the article is about Sebastian’s father. He gives it a quick read and a chill goes down his spine. Having survived putting a bullet into his own brain, albeit barely, Richard Stone had stayed in a coma for eleven years afterwards. His physical condition was described as stable. But the day after Deaton and Stone left the Saunders’ household, he suffered a heart attack and died without ever waking up.

“Fuck, well, I can’t blame the dude for wanting to kill him,” Stiles mutters.

_I’m not doing this because of what you did to me. I need you to understand that._

_Of course not._

Stiles jumps again, then shakes himself. He needs to start getting more sleep if he’s going to have nightmares even when he’s awake. Then he saves the article for further perusal, in case he needs it. It’s past two o’clock in the morning, so he decides to throw in the towel. His eyelids are starting to feel heavy. He puts his coffee mug on the counter and goes into the living room to see where everyone else is. Most of them are in wolf form, curled up on the cushions and the floor. Only Scott hasn’t shifted, and he and Allison are lying sprawled on the couch. Everyone is asleep. Stiles snags a blanket and crawls in between Derek and Erica, shoving the latter over a bit to make room for himself. She opens one eye to give him a cranky look, then sees that it’s Stiles and just goes back to sleep. He curls up in the middle of the pile and closes his eyes.

_I do like you, Stiles,_ Peter says, and Stiles flinches so hard that half the pack wakes up. It takes nearly an hour for them to calm him down enough for him to finally, gratefully, doze off into sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure which half of this chapter I like better. ^_^

 

The weekend passes in relative quiet. Allison has an archery tournament to go to. Stiles takes the opportunity to pull Chris aside and ask what their policy is on human sorcerers. Chris says it’s the same as werewolves: if that person is destroying lives, then they should be put down. Stiles mentions that some people can put black magic aside, give up the power. Chris looks rather skeptical of this claim and says if so, he’s never met anyone who’s done it. Stiles doesn’t say anything about Deaton because that’s not Chris’ business.

“So let’s say, theoretically, that this sorcerer in town has taken on an apprentice,” he says. “A person my own age. I know that you guys tend to err on the side of _not_ killing teenagers, which, thank you for that, by the way. This person is casting magical spells that are . . . escalating. Quickly. What’s your intervention?”

“Kill the master sorcerer,” Chris says immediately. “Then the apprentice can be saved.”

“Okay. But the master is using the apprentice as an intermediary. I can’t _get_ to the master, and it’s the apprentice who’s causing all the trouble.” Stiles hesitates, then adds, “You know, in this hypothetical situation.”

The look on Chris’ face clearly conveys how unimpressed he is with Stiles’ attempts at obfuscation. “You can’t kill the apprentice,” he says, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’d get in trouble for that, huh,” Stiles says.

“It would be . . . frowned upon,” Chris says dryly. “Particularly since you don’t even know whether he became the sorcerer’s apprentice voluntarily. They have been known to conscript if they find someone with talent who isn’t interested. Black magic can be so powerfully addicting that once they force someone to participate in it, they can’t always stop.”

Stiles rubs his hands over his face and tries to stop picturing Mickey Mouse and dancing brooms. “Why is this my life,” he mutters. “I didn’t know that. About the conscription,” he adds, and Chris just shrugs, as if to say that he doesn’t know which way it went and doesn’t think it matters. “So the apprentice is off limits. Okay. Good to know. At least until he, you know, kills somebody. Because if he does, this shit is done. And I don’t particularly care what it would mean for our truce.”

Chris sighs. “There are means of intervention.”

“Binding or stripping the magic,” Stiles says. “Yeah, I know. But I’ve heard it’s pretty difficult to do that to someone who’s unwilling. What are we going to do, chain him up in your basement?”

It’s a good thing that looks can’t kill, given the one Chris is leveling at him. Then he says, “If necessary.”

“Okay. New twist: he’s a minor and the son of the district attorney.”

Chris blinks at him, then says reluctantly, “That does complicate matters. But I don’t imagine it really makes murder a more attractive option either.”

“True,” Stiles admits.

“There are . . . people who deal with this sort of thing.” Chris says ‘people’ like it’s a proper noun. “Organizations would be a better word. They come in and clean up when it’s a human causing trouble – someone hunters can’t or at least most won’t touch – but that can’t be contained by conventional, mundane means.”

“But that’s not the sort of thing our apprentice would come back from,” Stiles surmises, and Chris gives him a sidelong glance but then nods. Stiles sighs and decides he’ll hold that as a last resort. “Yeah, I’d prefer to avoid it if possible.”

“Then my answer doesn’t change. Go after the master. That’s your problem.”

Stiles sighs and thanks him and says he’ll get right on that as soon as he can find the motherfucker. Then he goes back to watching Allison dominate the field of archery.

Things remain quiet for most of the week. Stiles snatches naps here and there, still not really able to sleep very well. He gets a metric ton of microfilm records in his e-mail and starts sifting through them, one day at a time, looking for unusual things that might have happened while Deaton and Stone were living with the Saunders’ together, flexing their magical muscles. He gets an e-mail from Danny every day during sixth period, detailing the lesson the night before. Unfortunately, Danny isn’t able to get a lot of useful information, since it basically comes down to Jackson learning to focus his energy and direct it using models and dolls. Occasionally they have lessons about different herbs and mixtures, but Danny says those bore the shit out of Jackson and they usually move on to something else after ten minutes.

The useful thing he learns is that Jackson is not taking specific direction from Stone. The spells he’s using, what he decides to do, is all his own idea. This news that what he did to Lydia was indeed a spell of his own creation only makes Stiles more homicidal, but he keeps it to himself, not telling anyone else, not even Derek. He had expected it anyway. The way he’s directing his spells – at Scott, and Lydia, at the people he’s directly angry at – just screams Jackson. Stone is giving him free rein; he doesn’t care what Jackson’s doing as long as it makes Stiles’ life miserable.

Danny says he’ll start pitching some ideas at Jackson – pranks that might actually be funny or at least not harmful, particularly if he can warn Stiles that they’re coming. Stiles appreciates the effort, but he isn’t surprised when Danny glumly admits that he’s not getting anywhere. In fact, all he seems to be doing is pissing Jackson off with his suggestions of things like ‘let’s tie all their shoelaces together’ and ‘let’s replace all their lunches with plastic food’, so Stiles tells him to stop before Jackson gets any more angry at him. On the upside, when Jackson converts ‘let’s replace their lunches with plastic food’ into ‘let’s replace their lunches with toxic sludge’, at least Danny is able to warn them about it. Stiles quietly disposes of all their lunch bags in the trash and then they all spend the day acting sick.

Things are equally quiet on the Harris front, because until he actually files his suit, they won’t know how to respond. He takes so long about it that Stiles starts to hope that he won’t actually do it, but then, on Friday, there it is. It’s a laundry list of complaints about how he has been handled by the Stilinski family in general. Among other things, he’s saying that Stiles’ service dog can’t be legal because it’s obviously a wolf-hybrid, which are illegal to own in the state of California without a wildlife permit.

The lawsuit hits the papers on Sunday, which is of course the edition that everybody in town gets, since a lot of them don’t bother with the daily paper anymore. It’s also the headline story on the Beacon Hills Tribune website. Stiles spends some quality time screaming into his pillow and beating a tree with his baseball bat before cornering his father in the kitchen on Sunday afternoon and saying, “Okay. What do we do about this?”

Sheriff Stilinski sighs. “Stiles,” he says patiently, “‘we’ do not do anything. Mr. Kolenberg has a copy of the suit. He’s going to file our response next week. It won’t go before a judge until a few days later.”

Stiles paces around the kitchen. “What about the wolf-hybrid thing?” he asks. “I can write something up for you. About why you can’t prove that. Uh, there’s stuff on genotyping and really, all dogs are wolf hybrids if you go back far enough – ”

His father takes him by the shoulders. “Stiles,” he repeats, not unkindly, “we are handling this. You have enough on your plate right now. I’m sure Mr. Kolenberg, being a lawyer who works a lot of supernatural cases, has adequate knowledge about wolf-hybrids. And a research department. This guy is a bigtime lawyer who has something like eight paralegals on staff. We don’t need you to write a report on genotyping.”

It takes Stiles a minute to unclench his jaw long enough to respond. “Okay, but look at this fucking article, they make you look like the Anti-Christ – ”

“Yeah, I’m going to have a word with them about that,” Stilinski says. “This whole ‘the sheriff was not available for comment’ thing is bullshit. I have some friends over there. The fact that the lawsuit is baseless will be well-publicized, trust me.”

“People won’t read the follow-up; it’s the initial headline that’s going to stick in their minds – ”

“Stiles!” his father says, actually shaking him a little. “You have to let this go. I can handle this. I did get this job in the first place, you know; I do know how to be a politician. Everything’s going to be fine. Mr. Kolenberg is a very good lawyer. Now, I’m not going to file a countersuit because I want to appear as the bigger man here and take the high road, but _trust_ me, kid, _everyone_ in Beacon Hills is going to know that Harris is just persecuting us because he was involved in the Hale house fire and he’s pissed that I found out. He’ll be a pariah before the end of this. Let me _handle_ this. You go be a teenager for once.”

Stilinski lets him go and then takes his keys and leaves because he has work to do. Stiles just stares after him, frustration boiling up in his throat until it’s practically rage. He doesn’t even know how to express all the ways he wants to freak out. He wants to take his baseball bat and introduce it to Harris’ face; he wants to write angry letters to the editor, he wants to paper the entire town in fliers that talk about what a douche Harris is. But he can’t do _anything_. All he can do is stand there in his kitchen and want to scream.

Because life isn’t fair. Stiles learned that when he was seven, sitting in his child-sized black suit at his mother’s funeral, wondering when his mom was coming back from Heaven and why everyone was crying. He learned it when he was ten, when Scott was coming over three nights a week because his parents were fighting again and he thought it was his fault. He learned it when he was thirteen, when hormones kicked in but the beautiful strawberry blonde he had loved since forever ignored him in favor of the jerk who was always trying to introduce his face to the bottom of a toilet bowl. And he had learned it at sixteen, when Peter had arrived and turned his world upside down.

He can handle life not being fair. But what he can’t handle is not being able to _do_ anything about it. And it seems so stupid that in the entire world of magic and monsters, it’s one mundane asshole with a stupid grudge that’s trying to bring everything down around his ears.

He’s glad that the rest of the pack isn’t there. Sunday is typically ‘family day’, especially when things have been rough and their parents all want them to spend some time at home. Lydia and Allison are spending the morning at Lydia’s house and then going over to Allison’s for dinner and to spend the night. Isaac is hanging out with Scott at his place, and Erica is helping Boyd with chores around the house until midafternoon, at which point they’re going to go back to Erica’s for the rest of the day.

So it’s only Stiles and Derek at the Stilinski house, and Derek was giving them plenty of room during their father-son discussion. He’s sketching in the living room, pretending he hasn’t heard a word. Abruptly, Stiles grabs the keys to the Jeep and says, “I’m going to go to the store. I need to buy some cheap steaks for dinner.” Cheap steaks are good. Cheap steaks require maximum abuse with a meat tenderizer before they’ll be edible, and he really, really feels like beating the crap out of something right now.

Derek doesn’t question, but asks, “Should I shift?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He wants everyone in fucking town to see him with his service dog. He wants everyone to know about it. So Derek shifts and Stiles gets the blue vest on him, and they go down to the Jeep. Stiles tries to be quick at the grocery store. He feels sharp and edgy. Every little noise has him flinching. _Hypervigilance,_ he tells himself, knowing from all his reading. He focuses on his breathing and the feeling of Derek’s leash wrapped around his wrist. Whenever he jumps, Derek presses into his leg, which calms him down a little. No one will sneak up on him while Derek is there.

“Fuck my life,” he mutters to himself. The lie they’ve told to keep Derek with him is rapidly becoming the truth.

Once they get home, he lays the steaks out on cutting boards and gets out the meat tenderizer. “You should go out back or upstairs,” he says. Derek growls at him. In response, Stiles slams the tool down on the steak. The loud thump, almost a bang, makes Derek flinch. “Yeah, I’m going to do that approximately five hundred times,” Stiles says. “Save your ears. Go water a tree.”

Derek slumps, noses at Stiles’ hand, and then pads up the stairs. Stiles has a suspicion that he’s going to go into the bedroom and bury his head under a pillow. Which is fine with him. He’s angry at the world, even angry at Derek, even though there’s absolutely no reason to be. He’s angry at himself for _needing_ Derek, for putting his father through all this trouble because of his own shortcomings.

So he takes it out on the steaks. Cheap London broil, on sale for $2.99 a pound, almost an inch and a half thick and guaranteed to be tougher than shoe leather once cooked. He cuts it into small strips and gets to work. As he had expected, the work is therapeutic. Seeing each steak thin out to a nice three-quarters of an inch as he beats the crap out of it is productive and satisfying. He tosses each one into a pan as he’s done and then considers sautéing some mushrooms and onions to go with it. They can eat in style. He should have had Derek buy some wine. Or whiskey. He really feels like he could go for some whiskey right now.

Once all the steak is done, he just stands there and leans against the counter for a minute. The rage has exhausted him, leaving him spent and empty. He closes his eyes for a minute. They snap open when he hears a noise a second later. It’s the creak of a floorboard underneath a shoe. He looks up to find Peter Hale standing in his kitchen.

The former alpha looks about as bad as the last time Stiles saw him. He still has the scars that Gerard had left on him. His veins are laced dark blue with wolfsbane. His hair lies limp around his face, and when he smiles, several of his teeth are missing. “Stiles,” he says, that too-gentle voice that has haunted Stiles’ nightmares. “Have you missed me?”

Stiles sucks in breath to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled little whimper. His mind is frozen, shutting down. He thinks with strange lucidity, _So this is what going crazy feels like._ His back is pressed against the counter, and there’s nowhere for him to go. His hand tightens around the meat tenderizer he’s still holding, and he holds it out, brandishing it like a weapon with hands that are violently trembling.

Peter smoothly pushes it aside, a motion that seems to require no effort at all. He steps a little closer, bringing them within inches of each other. “You stole my pack, Stiles,” he murmurs. “Did you think I was going to let you get away with that?”

None of it’s real; it _can’t_ be real, but Stiles can _smell_ him, can smell the wolfsbane and the alpha and the faint stench of rot, of decay. It smells like the inside of the trunk of his car. Stiles realizes distantly that he’s stopped breathing, that he’s starting to feel faint, dizzy. It’s _not_ real, so there’s no cause for panic, he reasons, and so he just stands there while Peter’s teeth sink into his shoulder and he feels the alpha inside him start to drain away.

“Stiles, what the _hell_ – ” Derek’s voice is sudden, sharp, and Stiles jerks to attention. He looks around, gasping. He’s alone in the kitchen, and Derek is standing in the doorway. Peter is nowhere to be seen. Stiles’ hand automatically goes to his shoulder to find it whole and uninjured. He lets out a little whimper and his knees buckle. “Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, grabbing him before he can fall. “What happened?”

“Get – get me to Deaton,” Stiles chokes out. “I – I can’t – ”

“Okay.” Derek doesn’t question. He just gets an arm around Stiles’ waist and scoops him up like a child. Stiles doesn’t protest, although typically he finds it embarrassing to be carried around. Derek grabs the keys to the Jeep on the way out the door, not even stopping to put shoes on either of them. He dumps Stiles in the passenger seat and then stops to put his seat belt on him. Then he gets behind the wheel and peels out of the driveway.

Stiles just sits there with his face buried in his arms, his entire body shaking, wondering what in God’s name Jackson has done to him and how he’s done it. He’s pretty sure that one more vision like that will push him around the bend permanently.

Deaton is waiting when they get there, so Derek must have called ahead, although Stiles certainly hadn’t noticed him doing so. “What happened?” Deaton asks, as they get Stiles inside.

“I have no idea,” Derek says. “He was in the kitchen cooking, and suddenly I could feel him panicking. But when I got downstairs, everything looked normal.”

“I saw,” Stiles chokes out. “I saw Peter. He.” He tries to talk, but the words are sticking in his throat. “He wanted to take the pack from me.”

“Jesus,” Derek mutters.

“I’m going to take him downstairs,” Deaton says, then remembers Stiles’ reaction to the cellar and shakes his head. “Never mind. But could you give us a little privacy, Derek? I’ll need to be able to concentrate.”

Derek hesitates, but then nods and goes back out to the lobby. Deaton makes Stiles sit down on the floor right where he is and helps him take deep breaths for several long minutes. Stiles stays curled up in a ball until the shaking finally starts to ease. Once he’s back in control of himself, he looks up at Deaton and says, “Did you . . .?”

“Stiles,” Deaton says quietly, “there’s no magic on you.”

Stiles blinks at him stupidly. “I . . . what?”

“No one has done any magic on you,” Deaton says. “I think you just had a hallucination, probably brought on by the stress of the last few weeks.”

“But I . . .” Stiles can only stare at him, then shakes his head. “No. No! There’s something wrong with me, and, and, I need you to fix it!”

“Stiles,” Deaton says, careful to keep his tone gentle and reassuring, “you’ve been under enormous amounts of pressure, and flashbacks or hallucinations are not uncommon with post-traumatic stress disorder – or sleep deprivation, which I’m sure you’re also suffering from. What happened today was not the result of sorcery.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, pressing his hands against his face. He can’t think of anything else to say, so he repeats it, louder, with more emphasis. “ _Fuck_.”

“I sent Derek out because I wasn’t sure if you would want him to know,” Deaton says, “but you probably want to tell him, so he’ll be prepared if this happens again.”

“Again?” Stiles blurts out. He tries not to freak out. “This, why is this happening? I haven’t had real flashbacks in, in over seven months now, not since my dad got out of the hospital, really. And it’s not like bad things haven’t happened to me in the meantime, what with the faeries and asshole werewolf packs and crazy alpha pack shit . . .”

“I think what’s triggering you is this feeling of helplessness,” Deaton says. “When the alpha pack was in town, when other packs wanted to take your territory, there were things you could do. Ways you could fight back. You had a plan, and you were able to fight for what was yours. In this situation, you’ve spent a lot of time unable to do anything. Your hands are tied in almost every arena right now – both with the warlock and with what’s happening to your father. Did something happen today?”

Stiles deflates. “Yeah. Dad basically told me to step off and let him handle it, because I would only make things worse. I mean, he didn’t mean it in a _bad_ way, and he’s not wrong, but . . .”

Deaton gives a little nod. “But it’s hard to sit by and watch things happen, unable to influence events around you.”

“Yeah. And this whole thing with Jackson, and . . .” Stiles tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I’d better get home,” he says abruptly. “I left the steak on the counter.”

“Okay,” Deaton says. He doesn’t question Stiles’ abrupt wish to depart. He just helps him back to his feet and steers him back out to the lobby. Derek is pacing back and forth, agitated. He looks up as they come out, and Deaton just gives him his normal reassuring smile and says, “He’ll be okay.”

Derek obviously isn’t sure he believes that, when Stiles is still trembling and he smells like fear and pain and bitter frustration, with a side order of shame and self-loathing. But he accepts it, because he isn’t about to have the conversation in front of Deaton. He helps Stiles out to the car and puts him in the passenger seat. Derek doesn’t say anything on the way home, because he has a feeling that the conversation is going to involve physical comfort as much as words, and he doesn’t want to start it in a place where he can’t really touch Stiles. His attention is divided enough as it is, between watching the road and keeping an eye on his alpha.

Once he pulls into the driveway and turns off the Jeep, he sits for a moment and waits to see if Stiles will make any move on his own to get out. He does, but his legs are shaking so badly that he almost immediately sinks back into the seat to avoid falling. Derek gets out and circles the Jeep, opening the passenger door and helping Stiles out of the vehicle and into the house.

“I, I have to . . .” Stiles goes into the kitchen and stares at the half-prepared food. He feels queasy. He can _feel_ the counter pressed into his back and Peter’s breath against his cheek. He berates himself for being ridiculous. Being afraid of his own kitchen is not on the list of things that are going to happen today.

Stiles’ fear hits Derek from multiple directions. He can hear the spikes in Stiles’ heart rate, and smell it, but it’s also washing down the bond between them, along with some form of anger. He thinks about telling Stiles to go wait in the living room while he puts the food away, but then decides against it. Not if they can help it. Derek still doesn’t know what happened, but he does know that the kitchen belongs to Stiles. It’s his safe place, where he goes when other things upset him, so this is something that needs to be fixed.

He comes up to Stiles and wraps his arms around him in a hug, making sure to approach from the side so Stiles can see him coming. They stand there in the doorway of the kitchen together. “What happened?” he asks. “What did they do to you?”

“Peter was here,” Stiles says, staring into the kitchen. “He was _right there_. I could see him, smell him. I c-could feel his teeth.” He takes in a hitching little breath. “It was so fucking real.”

Derek sniffs the air in a blatantly canine gesture that he usually tries to avoid displaying. “I don’t smell him. Or anything out of place.” His tone is merely informative; he’s imparting information rather than suggesting that it hadn’t happened. “He bit you?”

“Yes – no!” Stiles pulls away, frustrated, and pushes both hands through his hair. “Nothing happened. _Nothing happened_. Deaton – ” He chokes on the word. “Deaton said no magic had been done on me.”

“Something happened,” Derek says firmly. “Just because no magic had been done on you doesn’t mean something wasn’t done _to_ you, or directed _at_ you.”

Stiles stares at Derek and kind of wants to throw himself off a bridge. “Derek, I . . . I just had a flashback. That’s what happened. It’s . . .” He has to take a breath to steady himself. “It wasn’t magic. It was just my own fucked-up psyche playing tricks on me.”

Derek closes his eyes for a second and breathes out slowly. Magic they can fight. This is so much harder. “I’m sorry,” he says, and hesitantly opens his arms to Stiles. “I just . . . I’m just sorry.”

“I haven’t . . . I haven’t really slept for days,” Stiles says. He ignores Derek’s arms in favor of just sitting down right where he is, hitting the floor with a thud. “Deaton says that sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations. Which I knew. But I’m _trying_ to sleep. I just can’t. There’s just too much going on and I’m sitting here with my hands tied and I can’t do _anything_ about _any_ of it.”

After a moment, Derek folds himself down onto the floor, facing Stiles. He tries to think of comforting things to say. About how this mess with Harris and his father isn’t his job to handle. But he knows that Stiles has heard it before; in fact, that’s half the problem. There’s nothing that can be said about Stone because they just need to put a stop to him somehow, and they haven’t figured out how to do that yet. So he tries something different. “Right after Kate . . .” He stops, swallows, and tries again. “When my family died, I was terrified that I would lose Laura, too.” He doesn’t want to think about how, in the end, that fear was entirely valid. “It was . . . paralyzing. I knew that the bond between alpha and beta would tell me she was safe but I just couldn’t trust anything but my own eyes. I had to be able to _see_ her.

“For months, I was like that. Her first job was waiting tables at a little mom-and-pop restaurant, because they didn’t mind having some weird teenager sitting at a table in a corner staring at one of their waitresses all day.” Looking back, he can see now how kind that couple had been to him and Laura. “I couldn’t sleep, either. Because . . . what if something happened to her while I was asleep?” He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly, painfully missing his sister. He pushes it back, because he has Stiles to worry about now, and that’s more important. “So she made me exercise. We both did, but mostly me. I just ran or worked out until I was so fucking exhausted that nothing was going to stop me from sleeping.”

Stiles is quiet for a long minute. He knows how difficult it still is for Derek to talk about his family, especially Laura. He knows how Derek is even now thinking that maybe, if he had kept his eyes on her, she wouldn’t have been killed. He hugs his knees to his chest and says, “Did it get better?”

“Yeah.” Derek nods a little. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “It was slow. And hard. But it did.”

Stiles manages a wan smile and says, “Well, I hope you don’t mind being an actual service wolf for a little while.”

“I don’t. Aside from the appalling hours,” Derek says, his tone almost teasing. “Do _you_ mind me being your service dog?”

“Mind?” Stiles asks, and says flatly, “I hate it. I fucking _hate_ that I need this. That I’m dragging you to fucking high school and starting flame wars between Harris and my father because I can’t get my shit together.”

Derek snorts a little. “I meant ‘would you rather have an actual dog’. I figured it was a given that you didn’t want any of this to happen. And you didn’t start this with Harris.” Derek’s shoulders tense, his voice growing tight. “I don’t know what his problem is. He fucking helped murder my entire family and all the people who could have put him in jail for it cut him a break because he didn’t actually _plan_ for Kate to use the information the way she did. And what does he do? He attacks those people and the innocents attached to them. Maybe I _should_ press charges and have his ass sent to jail for eleven counts of murder. Maybe he’d shut the fuck up then.”

Somewhat wearily, Stiles rubs his hands over his face and says, “It would only be accessory to murder and he likely wouldn’t get any jail time, if he got convicted at all, which would be hard since Kate’s dead now. So, you know. There’s that.”

“He still confessed,” Derek retorts. “And he would still lose his job. It would still be made painfully public. My point is that I have no clue what his issue is, but he’s using you to go after your dad, and that’s not your fault. You didn’t start it. He did.”

“Yeah.” Stiles slumps. “I’ve gotta get this steak cooking. You’ll . . . hang out with me while I make dinner, right?”

“Sure.” Derek stands and offers both hands to help Stiles up. “After dinner we can go for a run. And any time you’re worried about something being real, just ask me. I’ll let you know.”

Stiles nods a little and accepts Derek’s help, getting to his feet. He hesitates, then says, “Don’t tell the others. Okay?”

Derek keeps his hands curled around Stiles’ while he thinks about his answer. He knows how much Stiles hates being out of control and how it makes him feel like he’s failing the pack. “Okay. But you should think about it, if sleeping more doesn’t help. And I think you should tell your dad.”

“My dad is the _last_ person I want to tell,” Stiles says, turning away and rooting around in the fridge for the onions and mushrooms.

“Why?” Derek boosts himself up to sit in his normal spot on the counter.

“Because he’ll just get upset and blame himself and it’ll distract him for what he should be focusing on right now.” Stiles starts vigorously slicing onions. “If I can’t help him with this whole catastrophe, I can at least keep from being a pain in his ass.”

“Why would he blame himself?” Derek asks, eyebrows raising.

“Because he’s a parent. Parents blame themselves when bad things happen to their children.”

“I think he’d be more upset that you felt like you had to hide it from him. Besides, this is sort of the point, you know? Harris thinks this is some sort of game, but it isn’t. It’s someone’s life. It’s _your_ life. He just keeps getting away with things and he shouldn’t. It could have been some other kid at school with a service dog. Someone without the sheriff at his back.”

“Hey, now, my dad treats everyone fairly, remember?” Stiles says, and smiles for the first time since they got home. “That’s the whole point! My dad would support some other poor bastard just as much as he supports me, if Harris took after him in the same way.”

Derek cracks a smile as well. “He would, but most people wouldn’t think to go to him with something like that.”

Stiles elbows Derek in the thigh. “What’s with you and your logic today?” he asks. “Anyway, the other reason my dad will blame himself is because we were arguing right before it happened.”

“Oh.” Derek nods a little, understanding now. “I’m still not changing my opinion about telling him. What were you arguing about?”

“Basically, I’m over here going nuts with the fact that I can’t do anything about Harris, and Dad’s like ‘leave it to me, I know how to be a politician, I did get this job in the first place, the lawyers are involved, it’s out of your hands now’ and my frustration level is like code red, code red, danger Will Robinson, and Deaton says he thinks that pervasive feeling of helplessness probably has a lot to do with my psychotic break.” Stiles punctuates this sentence by chopping an onion in half.

Derek looks at the poor, hapless onion, and thinks about adding some sparring to their exercise schedule. “It’s too bad that the testimony of a vet won’t do us any good in court.” He braces the heels of his hands on the edge of the counter to either side of his thighs. “I still think you should tell your dad. If nothing else, what if this happens again and he’s the only person around? Knowing ahead of time will make him worry less, because he has some idea of what’s happening and that’ll make it easier for him to help you.”

“In what universe are you talking about letting me out of your sight?” Stiles grumps. “Okay, compromise. We’re going to write this little incident off as mainly caused by sleep deprivation and the fact that I didn’t see it coming. If it happens a second time, then we’ll tell my dad. Fair?”

“Fair,” Derek agrees. “And you don’t carry any weapons until we’re sure it won’t happen again.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “I won’t carry any _distance_ weapons until we’re _reasonably_ sure it won’t happen again.”

After a moment, Derek concedes with a nod. It’s mostly the sheriff that he’s worried about, but if Stiles has even one more flashback, they’ll be telling the man anyway. Besides that, the man is smart enough to give a combative Stiles room. At his nod, Stiles leans against the counter a little more heavily, propping his head up on one hand.

“Maybe I should try Ambien again,” he says. “I hated how fucking groggy it made me feel, but I’ve gotta fucking _sleep_.”

“Let’s try the exercise first,” Derek says. “We’ll go for a run after dinner. If it doesn’t help, you can try the Ambien tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’d have to get a refill, anyway. I think my last bottle expired.” Stiles sighs. “Thanks. For . . . being the rational one today.”

Derek lets out a quiet snort. “I’m sure you’ll get to return the favor soon enough, but, you’re welcome.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s an e-mail from Danny on Tuesday afternoon the finally gives Stiles some information that he feels might actually shed some light on what happened between Deaton and Stone. Jackson has started pestering Stone about those spells he talked about to gain more power. This doesn’t surprise Stiles at all. There’s no way that Jackson would want to spend his whole life as a six on a scale of one to ten. Knowing what he knows now, what Danny had told him about Jackson’s driving need to be the best at everything, it stands to reason that he’ll just keep trying to gain more power.

So they sat down and had a detailed discussion about it, and Danny, wonderful, helpful, amazing Danny, was able to surreptitiously pull out his phone and record it.

“There are two types of spells you can do to gain power,” Stone says, “and they’ll both cost you something. The basic difference is outside power versus inside power. Outside power is if you make a contract with a demon. Don’t think of ‘demons’ as something religious. They’re more creatures of dark, negative energy than anything else.”

“How much of religion is accurate?” Danny asks curiously.

Stone waves this question off with, “Depends on the religion, but not much. Anyway, dealing with demons is inadvisable. As you might imagine, they’re tricky creatures. Their real goal is steal your power from you. So it’s a constant tug-of-war. A strong enough sorcerer can handle that, but it’s really only something that a very confident warlock could do. Demons will flatter and manipulate you, make you vulnerable, find ways to get inside your head.”

“So what about inside power?” Jackson asks.

“That has to do with tapping into your own power,” Stone says. “Remember how I said that most people only go about two or three points up the scale?”

“Right, but you said that you went from a three to a nine,” Jackson says, in an eager tone.

“Right. And that has to do with the way magic works,” Stone says. “Or more accurately, with the way the _mind_ works. Everyone has untapped potential inside them, which is locked down by fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of being isolated. Fear of being _too_ powerful. There are spells you can do to access that potential. To unlock the power inside yourself. The spells are simple in theory but require utter, wholesale commitment. The slightest shred of doubt can cause it to backfire in dangerous ways. You must be completely without fear if it’s going to work.”

Surprisingly, Jackson says nothing. Stiles thinks to himself that really, Jackson has been afraid his whole life. Afraid he doesn’t belong. Afraid that he’s not good enough. A spell like that would be immensely difficult for him.

“In any case,” Stone says, “you’re years away from being able to do a spell like that. Trust me on that; I did my first one years before I was ready with nearly disastrous consequences.”

“You had a shred of doubt?” Danny asks. He sounds rather doubtful himself.

Stone laughs and says, “Not me. But that’s a story for another time.”

The recording goes on for a while before Danny decides that nothing else of interest is going to happen and turns it off. Stiles is starting to put the pieces together now. He’s still not sure how the death of Stone’s father fits in, if it does at all. Stone and Deaton took off to do some kind of power-up spell. Something went wrong with it, and Stone saved Deaton’s life. The most obvious explanation is that one of them had doubts about the power they were unlocking – and Stiles is pretty sure that that wasn’t Stone.

“Okay,” he says to the pack, after they’ve all listened to the recording, Erica has mourned Danny’s homosexuality because ‘I would give him the best blowjob ever in thanks for all this if he weren’t’, and Stiles has gone over all of his theories. “Now is when we’re going to set up a meeting with Stone. Who’s up for it?”

Everyone is. Stiles takes the opportunity the next day to go have a quiet word with Jackson while Finstock is working with some of the players who need a little remedial training. “I want to have a word with your boss,” he says.

“Like I care what you want,” Jackson retorts.

Derek, who was joined Stiles for this little talk, lets out a sub-audible growl. It’s enough to make Jackson fidget uncomfortably. Stiles just gives Jackson a smile and says, “Okay. Don’t go tell Stone that the boy in red wants to talk to him. Imagine what he’ll think when he finds out you kept an important message from him because of your own ego.”

Jackson’s jaw twitches. “You think you’re so big and bad, don’t you.”

“Yes,” Stiles says. “Yes, I do. And so does Stone. Don’t you get it, Jackson? You’re just a pawn in our little game.” He twitches his fingers at him and says, “So go on. Do what pawns do. Because this is bigger than you know and badder than you can comprehend. Give Stone my message. I want to have a word with him. He’ll take it from there.”

Jackson’s clearly furious, but Stiles turns and walks away from him before he can respond. He whistles as he goes, just to make it more insulting. It makes him feel better to get at least a little of his own back. He suspects that he’ll have to wait a few days to get a response. Stone will want to make him sweat. That’s okay. He feels so much better just to be _doing_ something, to have set some sort of plan in motion.

Finstock actually shows them some new moves during practice, and Stiles is still full of energy, so the boys decide to go run around in the forest for a while. Boyd is at his house with Lydia, who’s helping his two younger sisters out with some kind of arts and crafts project. Allison and Erica are checking in at the Argent household. (Stiles suspects that Chris actually thinks Erica is pretty funny, although he would never admit it.) So they drive out into the woods beyond the Hale house and burn off some energy. It’s a little chilly for November, but the movement keeps them warm. They play lacrosse, practicing the new moves and patterns, and then just run around like maniacs, “playing parkour werewolves” as Stiles is fond of saying.

The sun is setting by the time they start for home. Stiles is feeling fairly mellow and relaxed, cruising down the old country road. They’re almost back in town when Stiles suddenly catches sight of a silver sports car in his rearview mirror. “Fuck,” he says. “Is that Jackson?”

The question is answered mere moments later. Jackson’s car has a lot more punch to it than Stiles’ Jeep; a few seconds later, Jackson’s car is close behind him. “You little fucker,” Stiles mutters, stepping on the gas. “Think you can tailgate me? Is that what you think?” He takes a curve at forty-five miles an hour, an easy fifteen miles over the speed limit. He’s going nearly sixty by the end of the next straightaway. “Which one of us knows these roads by heart, jerk-off?”

“Be careful, Stiles,” Scott urges. “Don’t let your temper get the better of you. Let him tailgate if he wants to be a douche.”

Stiles knows that Scott is probably right, and that the urge to slam on the brakes and crumple the hood of Jackson’s fancy fiberglass car with the solid metal of his old-fashioned Jeep is not one he should obey. Technically, the accident would be Jackson’s fault, but both of them would suffer insurance premiums through the roof. He can just _see_ the look on his father’s face. So he takes a deep breath, reminds himself that he should spend at least some of his life being mature and taking the high road, and hits the brakes. They’re coming back into town, anyway; they’ll be hitting traffic soon.

Which is why it’s all the more disconcerting when the brakes resist for a moment, and then the pedal goes flat to the floor without making the slightest dent in his speed.

“Oh, shit,” he says, more surprised than anything else.

“Oh, shit, what?” Scott and Isaac clamor.

“My – my brakes just failed.” Stiles pumps them several more times, to no avail. “I can’t slow down!”

“Son of a bitch – ” Scott says. “Derek, shift! Get your seatbelt on!”

Derek just snarls at him, but Stiles says, “Dude, he’s right, if you get ejected from the car at sixty miles per hour, that might be more damage than even you can take.” His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror. Jackson has melted back to a reasonable distance now. He was only tailgating to get Stiles to increase his speed. “You’ll be safer if you’re strapped in. Do it, damn it!”

A few moments later, Derek is in his human form, grabbing at the seat belt. “Can we just wait for the speed to bleed off?” he asks.

“It’s bled off some already,” Stiles says. They’re down to fifty miles per hour now. “But we won’t have much time unless – ”

They round the last bend as they come into town, and Stiles sees what he’s been dreading: the red light up ahead. As the old country lane turns into a more sensible city road, there’s a four-way intersection. Worse yet, he knows that his side of the light is an on-demand light – with no one there to trip it, it will stay red. Since no one is currently sitting at the light, the odds that it will turn green before he gets there and careens through the intersection are exactly zero. He can see steady traffic moving across the road where he’s heading.

“Oh, fuck,” he says. If they go through the intersection, odds are very good he’ll hit least one other car, or possibly several, and cause a multi-car pile-up. The other cars are containing people that are not werewolves, and the Jeep is tough enough to deal out serious damage if it broadsides someone. “Oh fuck, oh fuck – hold on, everybody – ” he blurts out, and jerks the wheel to the side, steering the car right off the road.

The Jeep bounces and jolts as it drives onto the grass and gravel that lines the road. He pumps the brakes instinctively, hoping that the rough terrain will help slow the car down. But the Jeep is still doing an easy forty miles per hour when they go into a ditch that he didn’t even see coming in the dim light. The collision knocks all the air out of him, the car bounces, flips, and then there’s another bang and a crash and everything goes black.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is largely based on my own experiences in a car accident I was in a few years ago. So anyone who's wondering "is it really possible to get glass in your underwear?" The answer is yes. Yes it is.

 

“I am upside down,” Stiles says blearily. He blinks a little at his surroundings. He seems to be looking at a tree. “Why . . . am I upside down?”

“Hang on, Stiles, we’re going to get you out of here.” The voice is calm and steady, with underlying notes of hysteria, so it’s obviously Derek’s voice. Stiles stares over at him, which is difficult, because blood is dripping into his eye. He can see a nasty gash on Derek’s forehead healing as he speaks.

“No,” he says, almost a moment too late. “No, fuck, no. Get out of the car. All of you, out of the car! You weren’t here. I was driving by myself.”

“What, Stiles – ” Derek starts, confused, almost wounded.

“He’s right,” Scott says quickly. “Look at us, Derek, in three minutes none of us are going to have a scratch. Nobody’s going to believe we were in the car when it crashed. We have to go, right now, especially you. You’re not even wearing any clothes, for fuck’s sake – ”

“But – ”

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Stiles says. “Get him out of here!”

As things clear up, he’s peripherally aware of Scott and Isaac hauling Derek out of the car. Isaac grabs the little blue vest that he had been wearing and they hustle him away, into the forest. He sees Derek cast one glance over his shoulder, and then they’ve vanished into the trees. He takes a deep breath and tries to center himself. The Jeep has flipped, but he’s still belted in; that’s why he’s upside down. The damage to the car must be bad, but he doesn’t smell gasoline. The main thing he remembers about the crash is that it was _loud_.

Only a minute later, Derek comes running back up to the car with Scott in tow. Derek is now wearing the jeans and T-shirt that Isaac had been wearing. “Did you mug Isaac, steal his clothes, and leave him in the woods?” Stiles asks through the shattered window. He realizes that bits of glass are strewn everywhere. He’s pretty sure that a piece is lodged in his nostril, which is extremely uncomfortable.

“He offered,” Derek says tersely.

“Derek and I were out for a walk when we saw the crash,” Scott says, in the manner of one rehearsing an explanation. “We figured we would stop and help out. Good thing, huh?” He holds up his phone and says, “I called 911. And your dad.”

“Great,” Stiles says. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

The Jeep’s front door has been crumpled so badly that it won’t open. Derek rips it clean off with a grunt of effort. Stiles wonders how they’re going to explain _that_ to the cops, then decides that he doesn’t care. Scott is reaching over him to undo his seat belt, Derek’s hands underneath his shoulders bracing him for when it lets go. Carefully, the two of them slide him out of the car. “Easy, easy,” Scott says, as they lay him down on the ground. “Stiles, tell me what hurts.”

Stiles tries to do a self-assessment, which is a little difficult because everything is spinning and crazily skewed. “I think my face is bleeding,” he says.

“Yeah, you’ve got a nasty gash there from some flying glass,” Scott says. “What else?”

“My leg. Left leg.” Stiles winces as Scott moves his hands down on it. “Think I banged my knee. Chest hurts a little. Not bad. Neck, too.”

“Probably some whiplash,” Scott says. “Chest might just be due to where your seat belt caught you.” They can hear sirens now. Scott’s hands are still moving over Stiles’ body, looking for any other injuries, while Derek hovers, scowling anxiously. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but we’d better not move him anymore until they get here with a C-collar,” he says.

A police car and an ambulance skid up a moment later. The paramedics actually know Scott, and he gives them a brief rundown of his conclusions while they get the C-collar on Stiles. “Hey, no, I feel okay,” Stiles says, trying to sit up. “Really, I have no desire to go to the hospital – how’s my car?”

Derek and Scott both wince. “It’s pretty trashed, man,” Scott says.

“Fucking _Jackson_ ,” Stiles growls. “Fucking _sorcery_ , fuck my life – ”

“What on earth happened?” someone says, and hey, it’s Carmichael, Stiles’ least favorite cop, although he has been known to come through when the occasion calls for it.

“My brakes failed,” Stiles says. “I decided it’d be better to steer myself into a ditch than go through a red light. That way at least I’d only total my own car.”

“Uh huh.” Carmichael taps his notepad with the butt of his pencil. “How fast were you going, son?”

“Seriously, are we seriously doing this now?” Derek snaps. “We need to get him to the hospital – ”

“Forty,” Stiles says. “I was doing forty in a thirty. Arrest me. That’d be preferable to the fucking hospital – ”

“Quiet, you,” Scott says, helping the paramedics get him loaded onto the stretcher. “Your opinion is not being requested.”

Stiles huffs out a sigh, but knows better than to argue when Scott’s medical expertise is being called into question. And to be fair, the hospital might have painkillers, which would be nice right now, because now that he’s _noticed_ his leg hurts, he’s realized that it hurts like a son of a bitch. “My poor car,” he moans, but stops arguing. Scott hops into the ambulance with him. Derek is annoyed when they make him ride up front; Scott tells him that he’s lucky there’s room for him at all.

The EMT is asking him a series of questions about what hurts and how much and can he wiggle his toes. Stiles answers all of these and then whines, “There’s glass in my fucking nose, okay, can someone please take care of that?” Someone leans over with a pair of tweezers and extracts a piece of glass about the size of a pencil eraser. It’s stained bright red with blood. “Why is this my life,” Stiles mutters, as they’re unloading him into the emergency room.

As it turns out, one entire side of his body has been lacerated with tiny cuts from the powdered glass. “I thought this shit was safety glass,” Stiles says, looking down at his left arm, which received the worst of it, along with the left side of his face.

“I think there’s limits to that kind of thing,” Scott says. “Fuck, you’re shivering, you’re going into shock.”

“I’m not shocked, I’m not even fucking surprised, this is just my life now – ”

“Physical shock, you asshole, it has nothing to do with your psychological reaction to an event, can we get a heated blanket over here?” Scott calls over to a nurse. A minute later, said blanket has been draped over Stiles.

“That’s nice,” he murmurs, and he can even put up with the doctor poking and prodding him, feeling at his abdomen (although fortunately through his shirt, so the nasty scars are not noticed). “Shouldn’t you be asking me if I’m pregnant?”

“Funny,” the doctor says. He looks familiar. Stiles is pretty sure they’ve met before. “You’re a funny kid. We’re going to do some x-rays of your chest and your leg, and it’s possible you may have to pee in a cup, so if you do, we can check to see if you’re pregnant then.”

Stiles shifts a little in an attempt to determine if he pissed in his pants during the accident. He feels glass grind and dig into his skin. “I’m pretty sure there’s glass in my underwear,” he says. “How is that even fucking _possible_?”

Just as they’re about to wheel him out to get his x-rays, his father comes in. “What the hell happened?” he asks, and the doctor is trying to deter him, trying to say that Stiles needs to go get his x-rays done, which looks like it’s going to be about as successful as Tom’s perpetual attempts to catch Jerry. Scott manages to grab Sheriff Stilinski and says he’ll explain while Derek goes with Stiles to get his x-rays.

The aides don’t want to let Derek into the x-ray room with Stiles. Derek looks like he’s about to throw a complete fit, so Stiles quickly derails him and says, “Hey, why don’t you, uh, why don’t you go pick up Jack? You know . . . then he can stay with me while they do all this stuff.”

“Who’s Jack?” the aide asks, frowning.

“My service dog,” Stiles says. He thinks fast as she opens her mouth. “I didn’t bring him with me because we were out in the woods playing lacrosse, and it always upsets him when I do that because I won’t let him run around with me, and, never mind, just . . . Derek?”

“On it,” Derek says, his voice brusque, and he exits the room. Stiles lets out a breath and grits his teeth as the aides get him up onto the exam table. They move his leg around as gently as possible. He wonders exactly when painkillers are going to come into play and tries to ignore the impending feeling of suffocation that the tiny room gives him.

Twenty minutes later, he’s back on his stretcher and parked in the hallway, which seems to be where they’ve decided to leave him for a little while. Scott is gone, having gone with Derek to pick up ‘Jack’, so someone can hold his leash on the way in. So Sheriff Stilinski sits there and watches with a faint frown as a nurse wipes down the little cuts on Stiles’ arm and face with an antiseptic wipe. Stiles hisses in pain and annoyance, but tries to keep his griping to a minimum.

Derek turns up in his wolf form and his vest only a few minutes later, and tries to jump up onto the stretcher with Stiles, which scares the living daylights out of the nurse. Scott grabs him by the back of the vest just as his front paws hit the stretcher and says, “Oh no, you are not jumping up there until we know whether or not his leg is broken.” Derek gives him a scowling, sullen look, but then settles down beside the stretcher instead. Scott looks over at Stiles and says, “Isaac got home okay, just so you know. Everyone’s just camped out at your place for now,” he adds, and Stiles gives a nod and a sigh of relief.

The ER is busy, and they wind up sitting in the hallway, waiting almost an hour for the doctor to come back. This frustrates Sheriff Stilinski immensely, although at this point they’ve done hospital rounds enough to know that it’s typical. Finally, the doctor comes back and says that Stiles’ knee is badly swollen and bruised but miraculously not broken. His chest x-ray is normal. There are no signs of any internal injuries or bleeding. He doesn’t seem to have a concussion, and the cut on his face doesn’t even need stitches. They put some Steri-Strips on it and tell him they’ll fall off in a few days.

“You were lucky,” he says to Stiles. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“Hey, thanks for that, doc,” Stiles says loudly, then under his breath, “because nothing helps PTSD like being told you could be dead right now.” He hears Derek let out a little whine, and scratches him behind the ears. “How about getting me somewhere that I can get the glass out of my boxers?”

They get him into the bathroom where he shakes the glass out of his clothes before putting them back on. Then he’s put in a wheelchair and wheeled out to the parking lot. “Déjà vu all over again,” he says to his father, who doesn’t look at all amused. “What, don’t make that face, I’m okay.”

“Tell me what happened,” his father demands. “Slowly. In detail.”

Stiles knows better than to protest that Scott already gave him the lowdown. This is his father gathering evidence, being a cop. So he tells him the whole story, with as much detail as he can remember. His father shakes his head a couple of times, but doesn’t comment. By the time Stiles is finished, they’re back at the house. He gets fairly mobbed by the rest of the pack. Scott gets him settled on a cushion on the floor where he can properly greet and cuddle with everyone.

“My poor car,” he moans. “Do you even _know_ how many research papers I had to write to buy it, it was love at first sight, what happened to it?”

“It got towed down to Mike’s shop,” his father tells him. “He said he would take a look at it first thing in the morning. I need to call the insurance so they can send somebody out to take a look at it. Mike’s going to take a special look at the brakes to see if there’s any evidence they’ve been tampered with.”

“There won’t be,” Stiles says with a sigh. He’s suddenly exhausted. Every muscle in his body just _aches_. “I don’t think magic leaves traces like that.”

“We’ll see,” Stilinski says grimly.

“’Kay,” Stiles says, and relaxes against the cushion. Erica seizes the moment to put on My Little Pony. Stiles is asleep ten minutes later, his back resting against Derek’s chest, Erica’s head on his lap, Lydia’s fingers laced loosely through his own and Isaac’s head resting on his foot. For the first time in weeks, he just _sleeps_ , without a shred of a nightmare. Physical trauma is good for at least one thing, it seems. He becomes dimly aware, some time later that night, of someone carrying him up the stairs, taking off his shoes. It’s far away and unimportant.

When he wakes up the next morning, _everything_ hurts. From the top of his head down to the tips of his toes, he’s sore. He can barely get out of bed, but he manages it. His left leg will only barely support his weight, so he has to lean heavily against various pieces of furniture as he hobbles around. His skin is irritated and red even where it’s not actively cut. He touches it gingerly and realizes that it’s probably microscopic cuts from the powdered glass. He’s got two fantastic bruises, deep purple-blue, one on his chest and the other just below his waist, where the seat belt caught him. Those two bruises are his new best friends, because he’s fairly sure that they’re the reason he’s alive. He can’t even imagine what he would look like if he had gone through the windshield. The words ‘Hamburger Helper’ spring to mind.

He decides to take a shower. For several long minutes, he just lets the water run over him, washing away any residue. Then he cleans himself up. The bubbles from the shampoo are tinged pink. When he gets out of the shower and blows his nose, a mixture of dirt and blood comes out. “Gross,” he says to the Kleenex, pitching it into the trash.

Everyone else is still asleep in piles in his room. A quick glance at the clock reveals that it’s not even six AM, but given how early he fell asleep, he’s not surprised that he’s awake. He decides to go downstairs and watch some TV. He thinks about baking something, but just the _thought_ of lifting and stirring makes his muscles cringe. It’s definitely going to be a day he spends on the sofa.

He expects that the first floor will be empty, but his father is up, drinking coffee and filling out an incident report. He hasn’t shaved, and has dark shadows under his eyes. “Hey, you,” he says, when Stiles comes in. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I went three rounds with a grizzly and lost every single one,” Stiles says. “Jesus, I hurt.”

“They sent you home with some painkillers,” Stilinski says. “I didn’t bother with them last night because you just conked out. Let’s get you some now. Are you hungry? You didn’t eat dinner. I can fix you something.”

It’s not like his father to babble like this, but Stiles graciously lets that go. “Starved, actually,” he says. Five minutes later, he’s settled on the sofa with a turkey sandwich, a glass of green tea, and one of the painkillers. He thinks about putting it off, but decides he hurts too much. It’s not something that should make him loopy, so there’s no harm in it.

His father sits down on the sofa next to him with a fresh mug of coffee. Stiles looks over at him and says, “You look wrecked. What are you doing up so early, anyway?”

“Just didn’t sleep very well,” Stilinski says.

“I know that feel,” Stiles replies, digging into his sandwich. Breakfast has never been a specialty of his father’s. Given his druthers, Sheriff Stilinski would eat cold pizza or leftover Chinese food every morning. Still, a turkey sandwich is fine. He’s hungry enough that he would eat just about anything.

“Stiles,” his father says, “this is getting out of hand. You could have been killed.”

“Trust me, I’m well aware,” Stiles says. “We’re just lucky that Scott had the good sense and I had the self-restraint that I wasn’t going even faster than I was.”

“Why in God’s name did you drive straight into a ditch?” Stilinski asks, sounding a little frustrated.

Stiles glances over and swallows another mouthful of sandwich. “Dad, I had to,” he says. “The light was red. If I’d tried to go through the intersection, I could have hit somebody else. It was better to drive off the road so at least only I would wind up in freakin’ traction.”

“Jesus, kid.” Stilinski reaches over and tousles his son’s hair. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“That my Jeep is probably totaled,” Stiles says, gloomy.

“Well, among other things.” Stilinski is quiet for a minute. “I know that what happened with Peter changed you. And I know that you’ve been worried about doing the right thing, about crossing lines you shouldn’t cross. But this, what this means, is that you are way too worried about your moral compass. Because you deliberately chose certain injury for yourself rather than risk possible injury for innocent bystanders. You only had a few seconds to decide, and you had to know there was at least a possibility you could make it through the intersection without hitting anyone. And what you decided, in that moment, was to protect other people. That means that in here,” he reaches out and taps Stiles right in the center of his chest, “you are still every bit the good kid that you’ve always been.”

Stiles stares at him for a long minute, and then lets out a breath. He’s almost dizzy with the relief. He can’t even put into words how much he had subconsciously needed to hear that. He leans against his father, pressing his cheek into his collarbone. “Thanks, Dad.”

Sheriff Stilinski wraps his arms around him and holds him tight for a minute. “We are going to take care of this,” he says firmly. Then he sighs. “Look. One more thing. I wouldn’t bring this up now, but I have a feeling that the pack is going to be hovering for the rest of the day, week, or month, and this is something you’d probably rather discuss in private . . .”

“Oh, geez,” Stiles says. “Way to psych me out, Dad.”

Another sigh. “Mr. Kolenberg has brought up that it would be helpful to have a statement from a psychologist stating your need for a service dog. He . . . finds it somewhat concerning that you aren’t currently receiving any sort of therapy and is worried that a judge might find that concerning as well.”

“Aw, man,” Stiles whines. “Therapy? Really?”

“Son,” Stilinski says, “you have a service dog for a psychological disorder. That’s the fact that we’re trying to present. But you’ve never _formally_ been diagnosed with that disorder. It probably wouldn’t ever come up, but if it did . . .”

Stiles sighs. “I guess that going to see a shrink would at least be _something_ I could do to help,” he says. He thinks about the hallucination and the auditory flashbacks he’s been having, to the nightmares that are growing steadily worse. It’s starting to affect his schoolwork, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. “Fine, what the hell. But I don’t know how I’ll translate ‘kidnapped by a werewolf’ to a shrink. I mean, I can only make up so much detail and still keep my stories straight.”

“Kolenberg gave me a list of psychologists with ties to the supernatural world,” Stilinski says. “It’ll mean some travel, unfortunately, but we’ll have to make time for it.”

“Oh, great,” Stiles says. “Time is something I’m just overflowing with.” He sees the look on his father’s face and sighs. “Fine. If it’ll help.”

“That’s my boy.” Sheriff Stilinski reaches out and gives his hair another ruffle. “Now, how about we put on a movie?”

That sounds okay to Stiles. His father falls asleep ten minutes in, which Stiles had expected. He closes his eyes, nestles against him, and tries to ignore the sound of Peter’s mocking laughter, ringing in his ears.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The rest of the pack is shooed off to school, despite the fact that they don’t really want to go. Sheriff Stilinski calls the school to explain that Stiles won’t be in due to the accident, and he’ll have to miss the lacrosse game that night as well. It’s a big one, against a nearby rival school, and Stiles can’t help but think that this played into Jackson’s choice of attack.

Scott and Isaac volunteer to skip it as well, in protest, but Stiles tells them to go. Allison goes to cheer on Scott, but she’ll be safe in the stands because Chris is going as well, as he almost always does, mostly because he still can’t _quite_ get over the fact that his daughter is dating a werewolf. The others opt to stay home and keep a surreptitious eye on Stiles.

“Well, the bad news,” Stilinski says around four PM, “is that the insurance company is totaling out your Jeep.”

Stiles groans.

“At blue book value, you’ll get about four grand for it,” his father continues, checking his notes. “The good news is, Mike thinks he can get it fixed up.” He sees Stiles perk up and adds, “It needs major body work, so it’ll take some time. The insurance covers a rental, so we can go pick one up for you on Monday after school. But Mike made it clear that financially speaking, it probably would make more sense just to get a new car.”

“But Dad,” Stiles whines. “It was assassinated in the line of duty!”

“I know,” Stilinski says, smiling despite himself. “I told him to go ahead and start repairs. He did take a look at the brakes. Your brake line had snapped, that much is obvious, but he says they _can_ just wear out, so there’s no way to conclusively prove it was sabotage.”

Stiles is thinking this over. Jackson is pissed, off balance. He wants to keep him that way. “I think I might be able to handle that myself,” he says. He’s gotten an email from Danny which apologizes about nineteen different times for the fact that Danny didn’t know this was coming. Stiles doesn’t blame him. He’s pretty sure this was an impulsive action on Jackson’s part, brought on by how angry he was at Stiles’ demands to talk to Stone.

The tone of Danny’s email is frustrated, almost desperate. Danny knows that he’s losing Jackson. That every day is another day closer to the point of no return. Stiles knows that pushing Jackson is only making things worse. But if he can push Jackson into a mistake, it may give him the ammunition he needs to save him. It’s a risky strategy, but he doesn’t have a better one.

His mood is really not improved when his father tells him that he’s scheduled him an appointment for the following Tuesday with a psychologist named Gwen Mulroney. She’s in Fresno. “Kind of an odd place for a supernatural counselor, don’t you think?” Stiles asks, and his father shrugs. Of course, he doesn’t really want to drive all the way to Los Angeles or San Francisco. And actually, Fresno sort of makes sense. A lot of supernatural creatures prefer to live in the wild. There’s a huge swath of empty land near there, with Kings Canyon National Park and Yosemite, even Death Valley on the other side of the mountains, although he supposes Las Vegas might be closer to that. Fresno’s not exactly a small city, either; it’s the fifth largest in California, a state that has a lot of large cities.

He does a little research on this Gwen Mulroney and finds that she went to an excellent college and graduate school and has presented several papers on counseling of teenagers and has a specialty in PTSD. He hates her already. But if seeing her will help his father stick it to Harris, he’s willing. It’s better than being told there’s no way he can help.

He emails Danny to say that he needs to have a chat with Jackson. Privately. No lacrosse team, no parents, no anybody. Danny thinks this is a terrible idea. Stiles pushes him into it anyway. Danny reluctantly agrees and says that Jackson’s parents go to church Sunday morning but Jackson never goes with them, and they don’t try to pressure him into it. He’ll be alone at his house between ten and eleven thirty.

“What if he tries to kill you?” Scott asks.

“I won’t let him,” Stiles says. The pack looks unimpressed. “Look, guys, he’s fucked up here. If we can prove he messed with my car and it caused me to have a possibly fatal accident, we can get him in trouble. We can get him _away_ from us. We, we can separate him from this _hatred_ he has for us. And after that maybe, maybe Danny or Deaton or _somebody_ can get through to him.”

“Yeah, that seems likely,” Isaac mumbles.

Stiles sighs. “Look. I don’t like the guy either. I have _never_ liked the guy. But at least he’s got his reasons to be screwed up. Danny says that he’s got this real perfectionist thing going on because of the way his parents abandoned him, and he – ”

“What?” Erica interrupts him. “Jackson’s parents didn’t give him up. They died in a car accident.”

Everyone blinks at her. Stiles says, “Wait. What?”

“My dad was the insurance claim investigator,” she says. “He talked about it once, when I was complaining about Jackson. He’d made some nasty comment about me, I don’t even remember what. This was _way_ before I was in the pack. He said that it was a real tragedy, one of those no-fault accidents where they just hit a patch of black ice or something and lost control of the car. Jackson’s mom was pregnant with him, and they kept her on life support long enough to get Jackson out of her.” She shrugs a little and says, “I guess the Whittemores had been looking to adopt, so the hospital called them and said, ‘oh hi, have a baby’.”

“Then why in the hell does Jackson think his parents dumped him?” Allison asks, frowning, perplexed.

“I imagine that’s something we would have to ask him,” Stiles says. “Let’s . . . leave it for now. That’s a pretty big thing, and throwing it at Jackson right now could make things even worse than they already are. I’ll do a little research to confirm – no offense, Erica, I just want to have all my ducks in a row.”

“As you always do,” she teases, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, clearly not at all offended.

He’s feeling a little better Saturday, still stiff and sore, but his accelerated healing is taking care of the injuries and he can move around again. He still isn’t sleeping well, and Derek’s plan of having him work out or go running before he tries has been delayed thanks to the car crash. He took an Ambien Friday night and then spends most of Saturday morning feeling like a zombie. He doesn’t dare take one Saturday night because he wants to be alert for his conversation with Jackson.

Stiles rings the bell, and Jackson answers it a few moments later. He’s by himself, although several of the wolves are lurking, ready to rush to his rescue if anything should happen. But he wants to look nonthreatening right now. He wants Jackson to be off his guard. The other teenager’s lip curls. “What do _you_ want?” he asks belligerently.

“I want to talk to you about why you fucked with my brakes,” Stiles says.

Jackson just laughs at him. “Yeah? Is that what you think happened?”

“Dude, Jackson, I _know_ it was you,” Stiles snarls at him. “I’d just had the damned Jeep serviced a few weeks ago. I think they would have fucking noticed if something was wrong with my brakes.”

“Yeah, so what?” Jackson asks, smirking at him.

“So you’ve made this about more than you and me,” Stiles says. “Innocent people could have been hurt. You’re God damned lucky that I had the sense to steer my car off the road instead of plowing through a red light.”

“Look, little man,” Jackson says, leaning against the door frame. “You’re making a huge mistake if you think I give a damn.”

“Is this about Lydia?” Stiles asks.

“What? I am so over that bitch,” Jackson says.

“Oh, really?” Stiles replies. “Is that why you slipped her a fucking roofie and tried to score with her?”

Jackson just laughs. “Lydia would tell a different tale.”

“Lydia’s not telling any damned tales at all because she has no fucking memory of what happened that night,” Stiles says, the words practically a growl. “If Danny hadn’t called me to come get her – ”

“Oh, no, she might’ve actually enjoyed getting laid for once,” Jackson says. “It’s not like _you_ lay the pipe right.”

There’s a long pause as Stiles fights for composure. The conversation is going about as well as he could hope, and it’s important that he doesn’t lose his temper. Jackson needs to feel like he’s winning, so ripping his head off is not an option. It’s like the fight with Harris. He has to take the high ground, be the bigger man. Finally, he says, “What is up with you, man? You’ve always been a douche, but . . . not like this. _Never_ like this. You could have gotten me killed with that stunt with my brakes, and you _know_ that. You’re not a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have cried at your funeral,” Jackson says. And then, there it is: “So I fucked with your brakes. Why don’t you prove it?”

“Challenge fucking accepted, jackass,” Stiles says. He turns and walks away, and hears Jackson slam the door behind him. He trots down the street to where Derek is waiting in the Camaro.

“Did you get all that recorded?” Derek asks.

Stiles grins and holds up his cell phone. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I got it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, the scene with the therapist was originally supposed to be a quick little "and then Stiles saw a therapist whatever" thing, but then he sort of had a freak-out all over and the scene got a little long and tried to eat the chapter. So, uh, sorry in advance if this chapter isn't interesting to anyone except me. I'll try not to let it happen again.
> 
> In case anyone is wondering why I didn't use Ms. Morrell, it's mostly just because I feel it's likely there's *way* more to her than we've seen, and I just didn't want to use her here in case I decide to use her later after we find out more about her. So I just invented a character to bounce Stiles off of.
> 
> On the upside, just in case this chapter is boring, check out [all](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/49320605980/finnjavelz-fanart-for-the-boy-in-red-higher) [this](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/49320415176/finnjavelz-fanart-for-the-boy-in-red-higher) [amazing](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/49320641032/finnjavelz-fanart-for-the-boy-in-red-higher) [fanart](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/49320549954/finnjavelz-fanart-for-the-boy-in-red-or-more)* [that](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/49320382384/finnjavelz-fanart-for-the-one-you-feed-higher) [Finnjavelz](http://finnjavelz.tumblr.com/) did for this series! =D Everyone go tell her how awesome it is!
> 
> *This one is NSFW

 

Stiles sits down onto the sofa in the counselor’s room with a thud and examines the woman as Derek curls up next to his feet. She’s probably in her mid to late thirties, and fairly unremarkable looking, with short, brown hair, wire rimmed glassed and nice jewelry, but it’s nothing flashy or what Stiles would recognize as ‘fashionable’ from seeing it on Lydia.  It obviously more the sort of thing a husband would buy his wife, which would match up with the tasteful wedding and engagement ring set she is wearing.  She’s dressed in a comfortable cable knit sweater and dress slacks. “Hi,” he says. “Before we start this, I just want to say that I’m really only here because apparently people think I should be in counseling if I’m going to have a service dog, so, I don’t really want to talk about anything except maybe baseball or movies or inconsequential shit like that.”

Gwen blinks once at that, looks down at the file in her lap, for one ‘Stiles’ Stilinski from Beacon Hills, California. She notes his age, then she looks back at the service dog who has to weigh in at a hundred and eighty pounds minimum, or she’ll eat her sweater dry. Wearing a service vest, yes, but it isn’t really fastened and the leash is hooked on the vest itself; there is no collar on the dog. She knows a wolf when she sees one.

A seventeen year old boy from a town with a known werewolf pack with some sort of supernaturally tied PTSD with a ‘service dog’ that is in no way restrained and wearing nothing that could be considered a demeaning mark of ownership.  She decides to take a chance. “Okay,” she says, and shrugs. “Then your friend there can put some pants on and go get some coffee.  No reason for him to sit around, bored, if we’re just going to talk about the state of the weather for an hour.”

“Yeeeahhhh,” Stiles says, “that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Right. Figured I’d offer.” She looks down at the ‘dog’. “What’s your name?”

“His name is Derek, and I didn’t _bring_ pants for him, so unless you’re interested in seeing little Derek, who incidentally isn’t so little, I’m thinking he’s going to stay just like he is,” Stiles says brightly. Derek makes a grumbling, irritated noise but lets his head flop down on Stiles’ foot. His dick is not a distraction method, but he isn’t about to withdraw any comfort he can offer as he can tell that Stiles is about ready to make a break for the fire escape any second.

“He wouldn’t be the first naked man I’ve seen, and I’m pretty happy with the one I’m married to, so I think he’d be safe,” Gwen says, but then lifts her hands in surrender, “but whatever works for you two.”

“What works for me is not having to see a damned therapist,” Stiles growls, but it’s mostly under his breath. His hands knot and unknot as he searches desperately for something to do. He wonders why he didn’t think to bring his lacrosse stick, or anything that he could occupy his hands with, really. “But hey, this is good, really, if I get a prescription from my Adderall from you, that’s one more spare I can hang onto just in case I need extras.”

“I don’t know you that well yet.” But she is watching his body language, his hands, his eyes. “But since you brought it up, either your current dose isn’t working well enough, or . . . I’ll leave the other possibilities blank for now.” She’s curious to see if his twitching stops if she can actually engage him. If not, she’s already trying to think of something to put in his hands.

“Oh my God, I am not here to discuss my fucking ADD,” Stiles says. “I’m fully capable of figuring out how many drugs to take.”

“You wanted to talk about something innocuous,” Gwen points out. “Not your PTSD. I couldn’t go with sports because I’m not a fan, and I suspect you aren’t a huge fan of romantic comedies so that lets movies out. And let’s face it, the weather is really boring.”

“If the only movies you watch are romantic comedies, I’m out of here,” Stiles shoots back.

Gwen chuckles at that. “I do have a fondness for Bruce Willis,” she says, and then gives him a nod of respect. If she hadn’t been ready, he really might have side tracked her. “You’re very good. I’ll give you that. But we’re going to have to get into some of this, because if a judge is involved, someone may request my professional opinion and ‘he has excellent taste in movies’ isn’t going to cut it.”

“Your professional opinion is that I have PTSD and I should be allowed to have my service dog because there are fucking _laws_ about that shit,” Stiles says.

“And I back that up how, exactly?” Gwen asks, spreading out her hands as if to lay points out in front of him. “I don’t even know what symptoms you have, let alone what symptoms Derek is helping you with. Right now I can’t even say for sure what’s your ADD and what’s your PTSD.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles explodes, lurching off the sofa and into motion, pacing back and forth across the small office while he rubs his hands over his hair. Derek sits up, alert, but stays in his place by the sofa. “The lawyer dude said you knew all about supernatural stuff, you know he’s a fucking werewolf, so why can’t you just make some shit up so I can move on with my life!”

“Because all someone has to do is startle you and have you react wrong, and if I’ve ‘made some shit up’, suddenly I and everyone who’s on your side has become a liar.”

Stiles grinds his teeth together. He forces himself to take several deep breaths, fists clenched by his sides, body practically vibrating from tension. Then he visibly draws himself together and plunks back down on the sofa. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

Derek is up on the sofa and settled next to him as soon as Stiles’ weight has settled. He’s cuddled close, but careful not to pin Stiles down. He knows how easily Stiles feels trapped just remembering what Peter did.

“Well, the first thing I need to know is what happened. Where this started. I don’t need any nitty gritty details, but give it to me in bullet point. From the beginning through to now. What you think has played in, made it worse or better.” She gestures to Derek and says, “If you think he’s missing anything, you let me know,” she says, and gets a nod in response.

Stiles looks at Derek and says, quietly, “No. Some things I’m keeping to myself. Got that, furball?”

Derek’s eyes narrow and his ears lay back a bit, but after a moment he looks down and away, giving in. Any point he really wants to contest, he can do it in private with Stiles first and they would hash it out together before bringing in the results.

In response, Stiles reaches out and gives him a little scratch behind the ears before saying, “Okay, point the first: crazy alpha showed up in town, bit my best friend, generally stalked him and drove him a little crazy, other stuff happened, hunters tried to kill him, I’m stuck in the middle of all of it until crazy alpha decides, I don’t know, that kid over there with the pale skin and fragile bones should be easy to intimidate, so he kidnapped me and generally made me feel very unsafe for my person, forced me to use my mad computer skills to figure out where my _best friend_ was hiding and give him that information, after which he pulled a _dead lady_ out of his car trunk and put _me_ in it, whereupon I wound up stuck there for two days because in the end the crazy alpha got shot a bunch of times.” He says all this extremely fast, his fingers tying themselves into new combinations of knots.

Gwen makes a couple quick notes, obviously just to jog her own memory later and keep some sort of time line, nodding to show that she’s listening. She has no intention of interrupting him. She had asked what happened, not said they would talk about it while he told her, and it wouldn’t be fair to change the rules now. She does notice his hands, however, and how he’s abusing his own fingers. So she turns and grabs a second pen and pad of paper, leans over, and hands both to him. “Here.”

Stiles blinks at her in confusion for a moment, then looks down at his own hands and takes them. For the first time, she sees some grudging respect in his face. Then he launches back in. “Then crazy hunters showed up and had the crazy alpha being tortured in their basement and they went around killing omegas and stuff, a bunch of shit happened, they tried to kill my dad, I got pissed off about everything and put a stop to it by getting pretty much everyone involved fucking arrested.” He skips over killing Peter. Yes, he has nightmares about it. Yes, it’s contributed to his PTSD in a very significant way. But he met this woman less than fifteen minutes previous and he is not about to confess to murder. He tears off a sheet of paper and starts folding it in half over and over again.

Derek holds himself still through an effort of sheer will, because his alpha had asked him to. Putting Peter out of his misery had messed Stiles up in so many ways, but what was he going to say? Only stupid people confessed to what would legally be considered murder, even if morally it was a lot more gray than that, to a stranger.

For her part, Gwen notes the bit of respect she’s gained and notes down that part of the trick is to respect the coping mechanisms he already has. She also wonders what happened to the ‘crazy alpha’, since she knows he isn’t the alpha in Beacon Hills. She has a few suspicions, but keeps them to herself.

“So then things were cool for a while, we were building the pack, everything was good. I mean, there were some wolves who tried to take our territory and some weird faeries and then all that bullshit with the alpha pack, but I was okay. I mean, I didn’t sleep very well and the claustrophobia was pretty bad, but on the whole, I thought I was the shit, really. Except now some warlock has decided to declare war on the pack on account of the fact that he’s an asshole, and between Derek getting sick and a sending trying to slice me up in a grocery store parking lot and my Jeep being totaled and Lydia nearly being date-raped, it’s been a pretty bad month, and I would be fucking _handling_ it if not for the fact that this dickwad science teacher at my school has decided now would be a _great_ time to start filing lawsuits saying my dad doesn’t do his job and I shouldn’t be allowed to have a service dog. There. End of story.”

“Okay.” Gwen makes another note or three. “Do you want a service dog? Or is there something else going on that I should be aware of so I can take it into account? Because I can’t help but notice that you don’t have a service dog. You have a pack mate.” Maybe more than a pack mate, she thinks, but she’s shelving that for now.

Stiles huffs out a sigh. “One of the things the warlock did was fuck with the pack bond. Derek decided he didn’t want to let me out of his sight, so the service dog thing was like a cover. But uh . . .” He twists a new sheet of paper between his hands, staring at his lap as he says, “the PTSD has been fucking with me a lot lately, so yeah, having him there has been, uh, helpful I guess.”

“So it started as a cover story that turned real on you?” Gwen asks. She wants to make sure she has it right. It hasn’t escaped her notice that Derek has apparently needed his own form of heavy reassurance.

“Yeah, I guess. And I said hey, now that the pack bond is fixed, maybe we should just say fuck the whole thing, but apparently what I want doesn’t fucking count for anything anymore.” He stands and starts pacing again.

“Well, what does Derek help you with?” Gwen asks. “Then maybe we can revisit the whole ‘letting things go’ idea.”

“Dad won’t let me.” Stiles jams his hands down into his pockets and stares out the window, wishing he was anywhere else in the entire world, up to the trunk of a car. He would draw the line there. “He . . . keeps people from sneaking up on me. He distracts me if I start to get edgy. Once he, uh, sort of kept me from beating the shit out of a classmate who picked a fight with me.”

“How much martial arts training do you have? I know it’s fairly common in a lot of wolf packs for everyone to have at least some.”

“Enough that I could have killed the guy if Derek hadn’t stopped me,” Stiles admits, hunching tighter, still staring out the window.

Gwen makes another note. It hasn’t escaped her that Stiles can’t or won’t look at her or Derek anymore, although she would guess that there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s watching her reflection in the window. She decides she won’t try to push too much more today. She has one more point to make, and then after that she’ll keep the discussion to the facts of the legal mess that seems to have landed in her lap. One she’s now very sure she’s willing to fight. “Then you absolutely need a service dog. And anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is an idiot.”

“Oh, _now_ you agree with me?” Stiles asks, a note of bitterness in his voice.

“You were the one who said you wanted to drop the entire thing because the pack bond had been restored,” Gwen points out. “That sounds to me like _you_ weren’t sure if you needed a service dog. So I’m telling you flat out, that in my professional opinion, I highly recommend you have a service dog. If, for whatever reason, Derek can’t fill the role anymore, I’d suggest we go about finding you the real deal.” She keeps her tone even. She’s not going to be baited, but she’s not going to patronize him either, even if she is basically turning his own words back on him.

Stiles leans his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes. “I’m that fucked up, am I?”

“What you are is well-armed,” Gwen says. She’s quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her pad, thinking a little. “It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. I think without a dog or someone you trusted at your back, it would be. Many, many people in your situation just stop going out, because they’re afraid of hurting someone, or because they’re tired of always being on guard, watching everyone else, watching themselves, because they’re afraid. And the more they stay in, the harder it gets to stop. You’re cutting that pathway off before it starts.”

After a few minutes, Stiles turns around, leans against the wall, and just lets himself slump to the floor. “Yeah, that’s me, the combat veteran,” he says, with a note of raw defeat in his voice. “Because what I went through was totally equal to what they go through. Sure.”

“Are you sure about that?” Gwen shifts, tucking one foot under the knee of her other leg. “Because what I’m seeing here is a pretty pervasive, consistent lack of security and safety.” She raises the notepad for a moment before dropping it to her lap. “With several very real threats to your life and to the lives of those around you, to your pack. All while having to maintain the cover of a normal life, which is something a soldier doesn’t have to do.” She gives a little shrug and adds, “And yes, there are war veterans who’ve had it worse than you. But I’m also sure that there are some of them would look at your life and know that if they were in your shoes, they’d be hiding under their bed, crying like little girls.”

Stiles swallows. He suddenly wants to cry. To just spill everything out all over this woman and tell her about how frightened he is, how everything’s on his shoulders and he can’t let the pack see how much he’s hurting because they all depend on him, how sitting around with nothing to do has been driving him absolutely mad. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, he really has no idea what. But all that comes out is a little choked noise. Finally, he says, “Okay.”

Gwen watches him for a minute. She wants to push until Stiles stops choking on whatever he’s keeping inside. But she also realizes that she’s made a lot of progress, and she doesn’t want to lose it by making him angry, pushing him too much at their first session. Not truly angry, at least, more than this superficial snarling he’s been doing. It’s also become crystal clear that his problem isn’t entirely that he has PTSD – although it seems to be a nasty enough case – as that he thinks he shouldn’t have it. Hopefully, now that permission has been granted, it will help.

Derek eels his way off the sofa and over to Stiles. He can smell the teenager’s anxiety and even the tiniest hint of salt from the tears he’s refusing to let spill. He hates it when Stiles gets upset, because he’s never sure how to help. Sometimes he wants comfort, but sometimes the bad things are too close to the surface, and sitting next to him makes him feel trapped. He settles for laying himself down within easy arm’s reach, legs tucked in and head resting on his paws, to let Stiles decide which he prefers.

Gwen gives him a moment to let everything settle, then asks, “So, can you tell me more about this lawsuit?”

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. When he looks up again, he’s in control. He reaches out and twines a hand in Derek’s fur, not really leaning on him, but giving his lupa the comfort that he can’t really take himself right now, or at least trying. “Uh, yeah. Okay. So, there’s this teacher at my school who has this vendetta against my dad, the sheriff, because dad discovered he’d taken part in a crime. He didn’t press charges, basically because Harris – the teacher – helped him figure out how it had happened and who else had been involved and what was going on in general. But Harris really resented him for it. Fuck if I know why. I guess just because he’s a jerk.”

At Stiles’ reaction, Derek maintains his distance, because this is clearly a ‘give him space’ or at least a ‘cuddles won’t help’ situation. His lip peels back from his teeth and he gives a low snarl at the description of Harris, making his opinion of the man clear. Gwen is unfazed, giving him a look but then continuing with her notes. “And he’s suing your father for what, exactly?”

Stiles pushes his hands through my hair and says, “Derek came to school without his fur and told Harris to stop following me around, trying to catch my service dog in the act of doing something untoward, and to stop making comments about how he’d hate to see anything happen to him. Harris filed a complaint with the police, saying Derek had threatened him. My dad basically, politely, told him to go to hell and threatened to arrest him for filing a false report.”

“I see.” Gwen’s lips thin a bit. “How often did he follow you around? How much of a problem was it?”

“It’s not like he came to class with me,” Stiles says, “but he was always in the hallway whenever I was. Or sometimes the cafeteria. See, Derek growled at him once. Because I, I was kind of having a freakout, and I had decided I was going to put myself in time-out, so I was just kinda sitting with my back to the wall, and Harris reached out to grab my arm and pull me up to my feet. So Derek growled at him, and then Harris had a hissy fit about how Derek is aggressive.”

“Is Mr. Harris aware of your diagnosis?” Gwen looks over at Derek for a moment and mentally reviews everything she’s seen between them. A wolf named Derek from Beacon Hills can only be Derek Hale, who she was sure had to have a boat load of issues on his own, one of which almost certainly has to be an overdeveloped protective instinct for his pack. She thinks that Harris is lucky he hadn’t lost an arm. “Congratulations on your self-control,” she says, and Derek just gives a sigh.

“I know, right?” Stiles says. “I think we deserve _all_ the awards.” He shakes his head a little and says, “I don’t know if he knew at the time of that incident. All the teachers that I directly interact with were briefed and told that the ‘dog’ would be with me. But Harris isn’t actually a teacher of mine, he just happened to be in the cafeteria and hear the fuss. I mean, I heard my friend Scott trying to explain it to him, but he didn’t really seem to be listening. Which is pretty typical of Harris, really. Anyway, after the thing in the cafeteria, we all met with the principal and he was certainly made aware of it then.”

“Then you likely have grounds to file a suit of your own,” Gwen says. Her expression is rather tight; she clearly isn’t happy. “What he did was outright harassment, and given your diagnosis, we could easily argue that it was psychologically damaging. For someone like you, a service dog is supposed to offer a sense of freedom and safety that you can rely upon. Someone threatening your ‘dog’ is essentially threatening what you need to feel comfortable to live your life.” Her pen taps at her notebook. “You were protected from some of the damage because you knew that your ‘dog’ would never allow himself to be put down. But imagine if he really were a dog. For some people, what he did is like threatening to take away the life preserver of someone who can only dog paddle, but is in water over their head.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, shifting a little. “My dad has said he doesn’t want to file a countersuit because that would make us look petty and he has his political career to think about, so he wants to take the high road. I don’t want to file a countersuit because I just want this jackhole out of my fucking _life_ , so I really don’t want to drag things out.”

“Which is fine,” Gwen says. “I’m not saying you should countersue. I just want you to understand what it is that he’s done. This is not a petty act.”

“Oh, this is like the _definition_ of petty, but . . . okay.” Stiles huffs out a breath and actually looks at Gwen for the first time. “And, you know, thanks.”

Gwen smiles a little, appreciating that he doesn’t hand out ‘thank yous’ for free. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I can help.”

This gains her a scowl. Somewhat sullenly, Stiles says, “So, okay, you’ve confirmed I have PTSD and need a service dog. Are we good, then? Can I go?”

“Sure,” Gwen says, giving him a nod. “I can let you off the hook early this week, since we made a lot of progress. But we won’t be making a habit of cutting things short.”

Stiles just blinks at her, feeling slow and stupid. “I . . . what?”

“Next week will be a full session. No cutting out early.” At this point, she’s figured out that Stiles thought this would be a one-time thing, but she’s content to pretend that he had just misunderstood her phrasing. There’s no reason to damage his dignity.

Stiles actually laughs at that. “Okay. Uh, sure. Except for the part where there won’t be a session next week, because dude, seriously, I have a warlock trying to kill me and an apprentice warlock that for some reason I’m supposed to be trying to save from the dark side of the force, and, let’s think, a physics test, a history paper to write, ten chapters of _As I Lay Dying_ to read, ooh, and let’s not forget lacrosse practice three times a week and a game against Oakhurst High on Saturday! I have so many things on my plate that they’re starting to fall off. ‘Therapy’ is not one that’s going to be added.”

“Get the Cliff’s Notes on that novel. Don’t do that to yourself, seriously. That should free up a couple of hours. If Derek brings some pants and does the driving, you can even use the travel time for more academic work. Other than that, you’re only spending an hour with me.” Admittedly, it seems like Stiles is being pulled in too many directions, but in a way that only makes Gwen more determined to make sure he gets help. He needs an outlet before he burns out or explodes.

“I, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, shaking his head, “but I’m really confused here, because it sounds like you _actually_ expect me to show up next week, and I’m trying to explain to you that it isn’t going to happen.”

“Yes, I actually expect you to show up next week. Unless you can honestly tell me that you’ve got this handled and it’s not creeping up on you with all of this other stress and making things worse.” Her expression isn’t exactly challenging, but it’s definitely immovable.

“And you think the solution is to make me _more_ stressed by adding more shit to my pile?” Stiles snaps back, since he’s getting very close to just saying ‘well, you can’t make me!’ which seems like a very childish way to pursue this argument, as tempting as it is.

“I think _part_ of the solution is to see if we can find some tools for you to use to handle what’s already happening and to give you someone that you won’t upset when you just want to be angry for a while.” She had noticed how he had reached out to Derek even though it didn’t seem to benefit him at all. How earlier he had almost lost it and unloaded on her, but then pulled himself together. She’s willing to bet a fair amount of money that he doesn’t really vent at anybody.

He certainly seems ready for some venting now, though. He pushes both hands through his hair again, tugging at it, before lurching to his feet and bursting out with, “What the fuck do you think you know about it? You think because I gave you a three-minute summary of what’s been both the best and the worst year of my life, you can sit over there and know what I need? Screw you! I can handle this myself!”

“I have an education and a lot of experience and success in my field. No, I haven’t been where you are, but I don’t need to have been there to know how to help you with some of it. An ER doctor doesn’t need to have been shot to know how to deal with a bullet wound. A police officer doesn’t need to have been mugged to help somebody who has. So maybe you can handle this. But _are_ you handling it?”

“No!” he shouts. Then he looks somewhat startled at himself, like the honest truth had just fallen out of his mouth because he was so flustered. He shoots a look at Derek that’s a cross between mortified and nervous, and scrambles to figure out what to say. “I, I just . . . oh, fuck a bunch of everything,” he declares, and flops facedown on the sofa.

Derek hops up beside him, laying partially on his legs, chin resting against the back of Stiles’ thighs. There isn’t room for both of them if they aren’t sharing space. He had been getting more and more tense as the argument had progressed, but now he can feel the tension flowing out of him. Some of it, he hadn’t even been aware he was hanging onto. He doesn’t like that Stiles is upset, but the fact that Stiles might actually let someone help him is making Derek nearly light-headed with relief.

Gwen doesn’t miss the way Derek went boneless against Stiles; clearly the wolf, at least, thinks that things are becoming hard to deal with. She gives Stiles a minute before saying gently, “It’s not a crime, you know. Not having a handle on this. There are a lot of things you’re equipped to deal with, but there’s no reason this would be one of them.”

“I have to,” Stiles says, his voice muffled by the cushions. “I _have_ to.”

“Why?” Gwen asks, curious about his vehemence.

“I have to be there for everyone. Have to take care of everyone. I can’t let anyone see me weak.” Stiles rolls onto his side and hiccups a little. “Can’t let my guard down. Not ever, not for an instant, or everything – everything will fall apart.”

Derek eels up beside Stiles. He can think of so many words for Stiles, but ‘weak’ would never be one of them.

There’s a brief moment when Gwen freezes, the pieces falling into place. Stiles isn’t just part of the Beacon Hills pack. He’s the alpha. She’s not watching Derek Hale’s devotion to a pack member; she’s watching an alpha and lupa pair. Which means that with everything else on this awful timeline, she can also pencil in the inescapably necessary killing of an alpha werewolf. She understands that sometimes justice and solutions in the supernatural world play out like that. Sometimes there aren’t good choices. But Stiles would have only been sixteen, and she’s willing to bet it left an ugly mark on him.

She pulls herself together with a mental snap back into place. “Just because you can’t afford to give into it doesn’t mean you can’t ask for help. That’s the most efficient way to handle it. To ask for help.”

“I did all this research,” Stiles says miserably, wiping his eyes. “About treatments for PTSD. Desensitization therapy. Just _reading_ about the treatment made me sick. I, I had to throw up afterwards.” His gaze flicks down to Derek. “I didn’t even want anyone to know about that. I can’t, I just, I can’t do this.” A harsh sob escapes him. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Derek thinks that throwing up seems like a pretty reasonable response, all things considered. He tucks himself tight against Stiles’ chest, warm and solid. Gwen just lets him have his meltdown for a few minutes. He certainly has the right to it. After a while, she decides it’s safe to talk again. “If you can’t do that, then we’ll come at it from a different angle. We’ll figure something out. But we can start with you having the simple knowledge that this is a place where you don’t have to hold it all together, and a person that you don’t have to take care of. It’s my job to take care of you, if you’ll let me. Not the other way around.” She thinks that maybe the best place to start is just to let Stiles have a break once a week.

Stiles presses his face into Derek’s fur and thinks about crawling underneath his bed to die of embarrassment. He peeks out at Gwen, at her sensible sweater and dogged determination, and thinks that at least this is someone he can respect. And he knows that if this goes on much longer, he’s going to lose his mind. “I . . .” He licks his lips nervously, darting another look at Derek. “I started . . . having flashbacks. I haven’t had them in a really long time. I hear his voice. Peter’s. He . . . I hear him laughing at me.”

Derek meets his gaze and then gives Stiles a small lick on the cheek. He wants Stiles to keep talking, to let this woman help. No, he isn’t comfortable hearing about Peter or the things that he had done, but they weren’t talking about his uncle. That man had been murdered in Kate’s fire along with everyone else.

“Peter’s . . . the previous alpha?” Gwen asks, jotting the name down and taking an educated guess.

Stiles nods miserably. “He laughed at me. When he left me in the trunk. It’s what I remember . . . more than anything else. More than his face, his voice, the things he said, more than _anything_ . . . I remember that laugh.”

Gwen wants to hug Stiles badly at that moment, but forces the impulse down. “Are they only auditory or have you seen things as well?”

Stiles blinks at her for a moment. _Stares_ at her for a moment. Then he suddenly chokes out, “I, I have to go, it’s too small in here – ” He nearly trips over himself getting off her sofa, dislodging Derek and sending him to the floor with the abruptness of his motion, then yanks the door open and runs out of the room. Derek hits with a whoosh of air leaving his lungs, but is on his feet only a second later, giving himself a shake to set everything right. He starts for the door, not even needing to scent the air because the trail is so fresh. He knows better than to crowd Stiles right now, but he wants to know where he is and that he’s safe and no one else is bothering him.

“Wait just a moment, please,” Gwen says, moving over towards her desk to fish through a drawer, as Derek moves towards the door. “I can’t find him as easily as you can.”

Derek does stop and wait, although only because he thinks she’s helping Stiles, despite this freak-out. He’s impatient, though, and demonstrates this by staring at her as if it will make her hurry the hell up. Gwen pretends she can’t feel the eyes of a predator drilling into her and finally finds her deck of cards. After that she pulls a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge by her desk and grabs the box of tissues off the coffee table. “Okay. Take me to your alpha.”

He makes a mental note that he’ll have to tell Stiles that she’s figured out who he is to the pack later. For now, he trots off, following Stiles’ trail, leash and therapist trailing along behind him.

The building is set up in a square with a little courtyard in the center, and that’s where Stiles has gone. He can get some fresh air there, which is what he really needs, but at the moment he’s leaning over a trash can, puking up everything he’s eaten in the last twelve hours.

Derek heads right for Stiles and stands close enough for Stiles to know he’s there, but doesn’t crowd. He turns his face away to give the teenager some semblance of privacy while he loses his lunch, and plants his feet. No one will sneak up on Stiles or get too close. Gwen gets the same small warning growl that Harris got when she gets too close to the boundary line that he’s set. She gives him a nod and then stops.

“I’m going to go sit at the picnic table over there,” she says, respecting the bubble that Derek has set up and sits at one of the four round tables that are set up in the courtyard.

It takes Stiles a few minutes to regain control of himself. He just stands there, leaning over the trash can, breathing deeply for a few minutes. When the world settles back into something that resembles its usual order, he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and then walks over to the table, sitting down across from her but not looking at her, staring at his hands instead. Derek settles at his feet.

Gwen hands Stiles the bottle of water. “Hallucinations can be terrifying and sometimes dangerous, but I think maybe we’ve pushed enough for one week, unless you don’t feel safe waiting to talk about it.”

Stiles takes the water with shaking hands and takes a few cautious sips. Then he reaches out for the tissues and blows his nose. “It, it was only once,” he says, his voice trembling. “Derek knows about it. He . . . he watches out for me.”

“Okay. Are you willing to come back next week?”

Still staring at the table, Stiles just nods in response.

“Okay.” She could tell him that she thinks this is the right choice, the smart choice, or that she thinks he’s brave for facing up to these things, or that she honestly believes that they can make this better with some time and effort. But all of those things are things he already knows, or would simply sound like a verbal pat on the head, so she skips it. “Then let’s play some cards or talk about harmless things. Like what classes you’re taking or what your hobbies are.”

Stiles gives another nod. He waits while she shuffles the cards and deals a game of gin rummy. That gives him something to do with his hands _and_ something to look at besides her, so it’s a double win. He feels his respect for her going up another grudging notch. “So, Bruce Willis, huh?” he says. “You excited about the new Die Hard movie coming out?”

“Oh, God, yes,” Gwen says, laughing as she rearranges her cards. “I want to know how they’re going to top throwing a car at a helicopter.”

“With Russians! Russian terrorists! Who are actually Russian thieves!” Stiles shakes his head. “Who in the hell would think it’s a good idea to try to hide a theft with the far worse crime of terrorism? Some people.”

“There does seem to be a recurring pattern, doesn’t there. But do you really watch it for the plot?” Gwen isn’t about to guess on Stiles’ sexual orientation. Statistically, he’s more likely to be straight, but having a male lupa tips the scale back towards gay. Then again, the age gap between Stiles and Derek, and the general unusual makeup of their pack in general, points to the possibility although not the certainty of a nontraditional pairing. Either way, the ‘Die Hard’ movies always had at least one attractive woman who got plenty of screen time.

“Nope,” Stiles says. He’s relaxing now as he draws another card. “But you know, when it comes to evil villains, Disney takes the cake. Have you ever noticed that Scar not only killed his brother and banished his nephew, but if the rivers drying up are any indication, he apparently also controls the weather.”

“Maybe one of the writers knew their mythology, then,” Gwen says. “In a lot of ancient cultures, it was a common belief that the ruler was responsible for the health of the land. Bad ruler, you would get droughts, or storms. If you had a sick ruler, you had a sick land.” She drew another card and then discarded. They manage to waste the next ten minutes talking about movies and mythology. By the end of it, Stiles is visibly calm, his hands steady as he picks up or lays down cards. His breathing has evened out. Gwen gives her watch a quick glance, knowing that it’s nearly time for her next patient.

Stiles sees her do that and checks his own. “Oh, I guess I should get home,” he says. “I have a lot of stuff I need to do.”

“You might want to give yourself a little time before you try to drive,” Gwen says. She’s pleased to see how much he’s calmed down, but is afraid that his startle response might still be on a hair trigger. “But there’s a Starbucks about a block west of here.”

Stiles nods. “Okay.” He hesitates. “Same time next week? Or do I have to come back into your office and schedule something?”

“Same time next week is fine,” Gwen says, as she gathers up the cards. “We can meet out here if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, God, yes,” Stiles blurts out, and then flushes a little. “Uh, thanks. You know.”

“No problem,” she says, because really, holding sessions outside will be a nice change of pace for her as well, at least until the weather gets too cold. “It was good to meet you. I’ll see you next week.”

Stiles nods and gives an awkward little wave before scooping up Derek’s leash and trotting out of the courtyard at a pace that’s too quick to really be dignified, although he doesn’t really care. He slows to a walk when they get to the sidewalk and looks around for the Starbucks. It’s just down the street, and he heads inside. Nobody really even gives his ‘service dog’ a second look, so he goes up to the counter and orders a tea for himself and a hot coffee for Derek. He finds a table in the corner where he can put his back to the wall and takes out his laptop. Derek hops up onto a chair and starts lapping up the coffee.

Stiles works on his history paper for a while, using the wi-fi for research. Several people comment on his dog and the rather cute oddity of him drinking the coffee. (Stiles is glad none of them are dog-savvy enough to know that caffeine is bad for dogs.) A few others remark on his looks, saying things like, “he’s gorgeous!” or “wow, he must have a lot of wolf in his background”. One little girl remarks wistfully that she really wants to pet him, but her mother says, “No, honey, he’s a working dog, you see the little vest? You mustn’t disturb dogs when they’re working.” Stiles thinks it would probably be okay but he doesn’t want to teach the girl the wrong thing, so he just smiles at them and says nothing. Everyone is so damned friendly about it that he thinks about moving to Fresno permanently.

He finishes the outline about half an hour later and snaps the computer shut, then heads back to the car. Now that he’s calmed down, he feels incredibly stupid for having lost his shit all over some woman he doesn’t even know. He turns on some music and doesn’t say a word the entire way home, which is more than a little unusual for him, since he can typically be counted on to comment on road signs, landmarks, other people’s driving habits, and anything that pops into his mind, regardless of whether or not anyone can actually respond to him.

Once home, he responds to his father’s well-meaning “How did it go?” with a quick, “Fine, it went fine,” before he heads out back because he just _knows_ that Derek is going to have something to say, and he doesn’t want anybody else to hear it.

Derek does follow him and shift, pulling on the boxers and jeans that have been casually tossed over a chair. Spare clothes are a pretty common thing for all of them to leave in the backyard, but especially Derek. “My dick? Really? That’s where you went for distraction. My dick.”

“Your dick would make an excellent distraction,” Stiles says, grinning at him.

Derek makes a face. “Oh my God. Why do I put up with you? Come here.”

“Are you going to take revenge for me trying to use your dick as a distraction?” Stiles asks, scooting a little closer but not moving all the way over.

Derek huffs like he feels so abused. “No. I’m going to hug you because you need it and I’ve been stuck with paws all day.”

“I don’t need a hug,” Stiles says, crawling into his lap regardless. “You must be the one who needs a hug.”

“Would you rather I call it a cuddle? I resent that ‘cuddle’ has in fact become a regular part of my vocabulary,” Derek says, although despite saying this, he wraps his arms around Stiles and gives him a very thorough cuddling.

“This is more of a snuggle,” Stiles says, resting his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and staring off into the distance. “Hey . . . are you mad at me? For not telling you about . . . hearing his voice?”

“Maybe I should be, but I’m not.” He presses his nose into Stiles’ hair. “I’m just glad you’re going to let someone help.”

“Yeah, well . . . I hope she can. Because I’ve gotta admit, I’m really fucking sick of this.”

“Her confidence didn’t seem like a lie.” Derek’s quiet for a moment. “She knows you’re the alpha.”

“I thought she might figure it out.” Stiles shifts slightly. “So she knows I killed Peter.”

“She didn’t say so outright, but she doesn’t seem stupid. She also still seemed pretty worried about you, so I think she knows how it is sometimes.”

Stiles sighs and leans against him more heavily. “Yeah, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought she liked me. Christ, did you see how she got when she heard about what Harris was doing?”

“Yes,” Derek says, with evident pleasure. He’s glad to feel Stiles relaxing. “It made me glad she’s on our side. And I say that as someone who can heal from all but the most fatal injuries.”

“Yeah. Woman’s like a pit bull,” Stiles says, and yawns hugely.

“And sort of terrifying, really,” Derek agrees. He wants to just keep talking now and hopefully ease Stiles to sleep. To hell with the fact that it’s barely six PM and they hadn’t eaten any dinner. Maybe if they slept out here in the backyard, with no walls to close in around him, he won’t have any nightmares for four or five hours.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, and yawns again. “Just gonna stay right here,” he murmurs, and closes his eyes, pressing his face into Derek’s neck. He’s asleep a few minutes later, and stays that way when Derek slowly leans over so they’re lying down, and continues to stay that way when his father comes out back and drops a blanket over them.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now here is a chapter I just think is unreservedly awesome. ^_^

 

The day after his session with Gwen, Jackson sullenly comes up to Stiles during lunch and slaps a piece of paper into his palm. Then he walks away without saying anything. Stiles unfolds it to see a written message. He’s somewhat unsurprised to see that it’s a haiku.

 

_When the change comes on_

_Where you go to be yourselves_

_Away from the world_

 

“I really hate this guy,” Stiles remarks, and the others give him a questioning look. He shoves the paper down into his pants pocket. “He wants to meet at our warehouse at moonrise. Of course he couldn’t just _say_ that. He had to write me poetry. I should tell him he needs to buy me dinner next time. Lydia, what time is moonrise?”

“One thirty,” she says.

Stiles groans. “Of _course_ it’s in the middle of the night. Fuck my life.”

“You could catch a few hours of sleep before hand,” Boyd suggests.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says, already doubting that’ll happen. His session with Gwen had given him some really horrific nightmares. He had slept a few hours on the porch before they set in, but after that he had barely slept. If he goes to sleep at ten PM, he won’t be waking up at one AM to corner a psychopathic sorcerer. It’ll be Adderall and caffeine for him.

That’s what he plans, at least, but then he goes straight home after school, along with several of the others and decides to ‘lie down for a minute’. Erica flops down beside him and says, “God, you’re tense, lemme give you a backrub,” and Stiles thinks that will be a great idea for his hormones, but somehow Erica’s hands are firm and professional and very relaxing. It probably helps that she doesn’t make him take his shirt off. He falls asleep three minutes later and sleeps soundly for almost seven hours. When he wakes up, he has just enough time to eat some dinner and bust through the majority of his homework before it’s time to leave. He wants to get there early, so they have time to do a little prep work. He wants to get a camera set up over the door and one down the street. He’s hoping that he can get a shot of Stone’s arrival, preferably one of his car. It might help him track the man down.

“Allison, Derek, you’re with me,” he says, as he watches Isaac scale the wall to put the camera over the door. “Derek, you’re my polygraph. I want you to let me know whenever his heart beat picks up. I’m going to see how uncomfortable I can make him. Allison, do what you do best.”

“Shoot him?” she asks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“If necessary, yeah, but let’s not start a fight we can’t win,” Stiles replies. “The rest of you I just want spread out, keep him surrounded, but do _not_ move on him unless he’s actively attacking.”

Everyone’s in agreement. Stiles wonders how Stone even knows where they _go_ during the full moon, especially since they’ve avoided the warehouse since they’ve known he was watching them, but there doesn’t seem to be much point in asking. The others shift and range out. There’s plenty of space for them to hide. Allison takes a high point, positioning herself in the rafters, where she can stay out of sight and keep her arrow trained on Stone’s back. Derek stands right by Stiles while the others melt into darkness. Tactically, the warehouse is a terrible choice for Stone, and that just pisses Stiles off more, because he’s clearly not even worried about it.

For once, Stone doesn’t just show up out of nowhere. They hear the door to the outside creak open with its usual groan of hinges. He walks over and stands with completely careless nonchalance, obviously not at all bothered by the wolves ringing him in or the way they’re growling at him. In fact, he just smiles. Stiles agrees with Danny’s assessment of Stone’s smile: it’s creepy. It’s a malicious smile, an ‘I’m taking joy in your pain’ smile. Stiles squares his shoulders and steps out from between two of the stacks of old machinery, into the middle of the circle so he’s facing Stone from about ten feet away. He can be dramatic, too. Derek walks next to him, sliding his hand into Stiles’ and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Hey, Sebastian,” he says. “Is it okay if I call you Sebastian, by the way? It just seems like you’re going to be sticking around for a while, so clearly we’re gonna be pals.”

Stone’s smile just widens. “You may call me whatever you like,” he says.

“Now that’s just asking for trouble,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “So, I thought we could have a little chat. I would’ve suggested Starbucks but I don’t think it’s really in your area anymore. I hope you haven’t been living in your car or anything. That would just be embarrassing.”

“No, I’m quite well-accommodated,” Stone says. “Thanks for your concern.”

“Any time, big guy,” Stiles says. “But, see, I’m a little worried about my pal Jackson. I don’t think his Neanderthal brain is really set up to process the magic you’re teaching him. Plus, he doesn’t do very well at playing second fiddle. Not that I think he could actually do anything to you, but doesn’t his constant whining get on your nerves?”

“I’ve taught worse,” Stone says. “At least he actually has some real talent.”

“Yeah, that’s Jackson,” Stiles agrees. “He’s just good at everything. So hey, can I ask you a question, since we’re all just hanging around here? I’ve got a problem with a friend that I’m hoping you can help me out with.”

“By all means,” Stone says, that smile curving wider. He’s still just standing in the center of the circle, never once looking around to check the positions of the wolves.

“Okay, this friend of mine,” Stiles says, “he’s a nice guy. Like, a really nice guy, one of those guys who’s too nice for their own good – you probably don’t really understand that, but then again neither do I. And he’s got a problem, because there’s some asshole giving him shit. Corrupting minors, getting them hooked on black magic, casting nasty spells on people he tries to watch out for, like the son of this woman he really cared about, that he swore to protect. He _says_ he can’t do anything about the asshole, because he owes the guy a debt. But I’m not sure if debts are magically binding, or if that’s just something he feels he has to uphold, because hey: he’s a nice guy. I thought to myself, you know, I should ask Sebastian about this. He seems to know all about magic and stuff.”

Stone is still smiling, but somehow he doesn’t look quite as amused anymore. “Sounds like your friend is in quite a pickle,” he says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “The moreso because I don’t even think he owes this guy a debt at all. I think he just _thinks_ he does.”

Stone goes still. Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand, hard, and Stiles can barely keep the feral grin off his face.

“Deaton’s always been a better sorcerer than you,” Stiles says, the flippant note gone from his voice now, confidence in every word. “That’s why you stayed at the Saunders’. It wasn’t because you _cared_ about Deaton. It was because he was teaching you. Because, you know, I looked through all your records. You were never in one place long enough to have had a teacher . . . until you got there. But Deaton, not only is he more naturally talented, but he lived almost three years with a foster mother who owned a ‘spiritual shop’, which I’m beginning to learn is secret code for ‘Diagon Alley’ in the real world. When you were giving your caseworkers aneurysms and making your foster sister fall down stairs, that was just random bursts of angry energy. Hell, maybe you didn’t even realize you were doing it until you hooked up with Deaton.

“But he saw the sorcerer in you, and hell, he was just a fucked up kid back then. So the two of you started doing magic. Boy, did some interesting things happen around the Saunders household in those six months. You should see the fucking newspapers from back then! I’m thinking it’s amazing those two didn’t boot your ass out. Either they were incredibly kind or incredibly dense. Or hey, maybe both.”

Derek gives his hand another squeeze. Stone is just standing there, letting him talk, keeping that bored, amused look on his face. But his heartbeat gives the lie to his expression.

“But it wasn’t enough for you, was it,” Stiles continues. “It was _never_ going to be enough for you. So you talked Deaton into doing some sort of power-up spell. Some kind of ‘selling my soul for power’ thing. Maybe a pact with a demon, maybe summoning of some dark forces, blah, blah, sorcery mumbo-jumbo, blah. Let me tell you how it went down: you two hatch the plan. You run away from the Saunders’ together. You find some nice secluded spot for sorcery and set down to business.

“But at the last second, Deaton balks. He knows that what you’re doing is going past the point of no return. He _knows_ there’s no coming back from it. And hey, Deaton’s had a rough life, he’s screwed up and angry, but he’s not a sociopath, not like you. He’s not willing to gain power at any cost. He _doubted_. And the whole spell collapsed. You dove in front of him, heroically protecting him from taking any damage. Oh, and the guilt, the guilt must have eaten him _alive_. It was his fault that you got hurt, protecting him no less.

“But if only Deaton knew that _you_ sabotaged the spell. That you _wanted_ it to collapse so you could ‘save him’ and put him in your debt. That you _knew_ that he would have doubts and it wouldn’t work anyway, so why not purposefully bomb it? That way, this guy who was always going to be more powerful than you, who was too decent at heart to ever go as dark as you, would _never_ be able to lift a hand against you.”

Derek squeezes his hand again, and now Stiles gives in to the urge to give that feral smile. “So,” he says, “what’ll you give me to keep your little secret?”

“You’re a very good storyteller,” Stone says. “You should think about making a career out of it . . . if you live that long.”

“Ooh, scary,” Stiles says, grinning. “The one thing I can’t figure out is why you’ve been sending Deaton those little poems. I mean, I figure, you put him in your debt and then spent the next twenty years avoiding him. Deaton was so shaken by what happened that he turned himself in, got a new foster family, and turned his life around. He made good. You? Not so much. You went around being a bad-ass warlock. Okay, sure, we’ve all made stupid career choices. Then you heard about ‘the boy in red’ and thought ‘I want to get me a piece of that’ . . . for some weird reason, but hey, I am pretty awesome, so I can dig it. And then you thought, ‘crap, that’s Deaton’s territory’. But you just couldn’t resist. You just _had_ to come check me out. You couldn’t have done it without involving Deaton because I’m friends with him, but _you_ couldn’t have known that ahead of time. So why contact him at all? Why not simply pretend he didn’t exist?”

Stone shrugs. “If he hadn’t known it was me, he would have come blasted me off the face of the map.”

“Now, see, that is a lie,” Stiles says. “And I know it. Because those little poems of yours don’t say ‘don’t hurt me’ or even ‘don’t forget you owe me’. They say ‘come and get me’. You’re taunting him just as much as you’re after me. Every one of these attacks has been set up to get underneath his skin. You didn’t pick Derek as your first target by _chance_. You picked him because he’s the last surviving Hale, and Deaton was friends with the Hale family. You’re not carrying Jackson off to the dark side because I care about the douche so much. You’re doing it because you know it’s torture to Deaton to watch an innocent lose himself to black magic. So that’s my question, Sebastian. Why are you sending Deaton those poems? And if you answer it for me, I won’t tell Deaton that he doesn’t really owe you a debt.”

Now Stone smiles again. “And that is a lie as well, isn’t it? Of course you’ll tell him.”

“Hah, yeah, you’re right about that,” Stiles says. “I’m not exactly a good guy myself, you know? Kind of in the morally ambiguous zone.”

“But,” Stone says, “I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer one of mine.”

“Oh? Sure, cool,” Stiles says. “I’ll even go first. Hit me.”

“Who, in Beacon Hills, do you hate most?”

The question takes Stiles a little off guard. He can see why Stone would want to know who he cares about, so he has new targets to torture, but why would Stone care about who he hates? He thinks about saying ‘you’, but doubts that it will get him an answer to his own question, and in any case, he finds that it’s not really true. Maybe he _should_ hate Stone more than anyone else, but he doesn’t, because at least Stone has some valid reasons for being fucked up. So the answer just falls out of his mouth. “Adrian Harris.”

Stone tilts his head to one side and smiles again. “Interesting. All right. The reason I’m sending Alan poems is because he has something of mine. And I want it back.”

“So why not just e-mail him and say you want it back?” Stiles asks.

“Where would the fun in that be?” Stone asks. He tips an imaginary hat, then turns and walks away, moving right between Isaac and Boyd. Both of them growl at him, but Stiles gives them a quick shake of his head, and Stone never flinches, walking between the two wolves as if they weren’t even there.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Okay,” Stiles says at breakfast the next morning, bright-eyed and perky and buzzed on Adderall. “We’ve rattled Stone’s cage. Now it’s time to take Jackson off the field. Then we get to go see Deaton and find out what the hell he’s hanging onto that Stone wants so badly.”

“What are you going to tell him about Stone?” Scott asks.

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “ _You_ are going to tell him about Stone. Because you’re the good guy. And because Deaton knows you. He knows that while I might lie to hurt him if it would gain me an advantage, you won’t. You would never do that to someone you cared about, someone who has helped you. So you’re going to tell him what Stone did. You game?”

Scott nods. “I’m up for it.”

One of the favors that Danny has done, albeit very reluctantly, is plant a couple bugs in Jackson’s house. He really doesn’t like having done so, but Stiles made the excellent point that the more Jackson’s spells escalate, the more they run the risk of him doing something nasty to his parents. He also does not want a repeat of the Lydia incident. Stiles ordered them from some spy shop on the internet, tested them, and found that they worked perfectly. Danny stuck one to the underside of the Whittemore’s kitchen table and one underneath the coffee table in their living room. Stiles didn’t ask him to bug Jackson’s bedroom, because the dude does deserve some privacy, and also, he does not want to be subjected to Jackson’s idea of music. He also promised Danny that he would only listen to them at specific moments when he suspects something might happen. Stiles is beginning to think that Danny’s moral compass is equal to Scott’s.

Practically, what this means is that he’s getting a ringside seat to the conversation that his father is about to have with Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore. After some consideration, Sheriff Stilinski decided he would go see Jackson’s parents at home. It’s less intimidating than dragging them down to the station, and he doesn’t want to go to Mr. Whittemore’s office because he wants both parents to be there. So he drops by on Thursday evening. Danny has volunteered to make sure that Jackson’s out of the house. Stiles told his father about the recording devices, and his father just rolled his eyes and told him that he would try to forget Stiles had said that.

Mr. Whittemore looks somewhat surprised to see the sheriff on his doorstep, although he’s out of uniform, wanting to be somewhat casual, but he greets him courteously enough and invites him in. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asks, as they sit down in the living room. “I hope this isn’t about Harris,” he adds, shaking his head a little.

“No, no, nothing to do with that,” Stilinski says. “To be honest, Mike, I’m worried about your son.” He folds his hands in front of himself and nods his thanks to Jackson’s mother as she sets a bottle of water down next to him before settling down on the sofa next to her husband. “This little rivalry he’s got going on with my son and Scott McCall was cute in third grade, but . . .”

“Yes, we’re well aware,” Whittemore says, rolling his eyes. “Like when Scott dislocated his shoulder . . .”

“I’m not saying that there hasn’t been bad behavior on both sides,” Stilinski says, raising his hands in surrender. “Boys will be boys. But I think things are a little more serious than any of us knew. A few days ago, my son was in a car accident. His brakes failed. He chose to steer his car into a ditch rather than risk hitting an innocent bystander. It’s lucky that nobody was seriously injured.”

He sees the looks on their faces, polite concern but obvious confusion. They’re waiting to see what this has anything to do with Jackson. So he takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “There’s no easy way to say this. The reason that Stiles’ brakes failed is because Jackson tampered with them.”

Jackson’s mother makes a wordless noise of protest. His father frowns and says, “That’s a very serious accusation, Sheriff. You are aware of that, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Stilinski says. “And I wouldn’t have made it without evidence.” He takes out his phone and presses a few buttons.

Stiles’ voice comes into the room, hot and angry. “Dude, Jackson, I _know_ it was you. I’d just had the damned Jeep serviced a few weeks ago. I think they would have fucking noticed if something was wrong with my brakes.”

“Yeah, so what?” Jackson asks. Stilinski can just _see_ the smirk on his face. From the pained look on Mrs. Whittemore’s face, he’s pretty sure that she can picture it too.

“So you’ve made this about more than you and me,” Stiles says. “Innocent people could have been hurt. You’re God damned lucky that I had the sense to steer my car off the road instead of plowing through a red light.”

“Look, little man,” Jackson says. “You’re making a huge mistake if you think I give a damn.”

Stilinski sees both the Whittemores wince. Jackson hasn’t exactly claimed responsibility, but then again he isn’t denying it, either. And he certainly isn’t showing appropriate concern.

“Is this about Lydia?” Stiles asks.

“What? I am so over that bitch,” Jackson says.

“Oh, really?” Stiles replies. “Is that why you slipped her a fucking roofie and tried to score with her?”

Another wince. But Jackson just laughs. “Lydia would tell a different tale.”

“Lydia’s not telling any damned tales at all because she has no fucking memory of what happened that night,” Stiles says, the words practically a growl. “If Danny hadn’t called me to come get her – ”

“Oh, no, she might’ve actually enjoyed getting laid for once,” Jackson says. “It’s not like _you_ lay the pipe right.”

There’s a long pause. Sheriff Stilinski knows from experience that Stiles is fighting for composure. Finally, he says, “What is up with you, man? You’ve always been a douche, but . . . not like this. _Never_ like this. You could have gotten me killed with that stunt with my brakes, and you _know_ that. You’re not a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have cried at your funeral,” Jackson says. “So I fucked with your brakes. Why don’t you prove it?”

“Challenge fucking accepted, jackass,” Stiles says. And the recording ends.

“Jesus,” Mr. Whittemore mutters, holding his head in his hands. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

Stilinski gives them a moment to work through it all, then says gently, “I’ve talked to Stiles about this. You may find it hard to believe, but he’s _worried_ about Jackson. They’ve been enemies so long, I think Stiles thinks of him as something of a friend. Even if he didn’t, well . . . Stiles knows what it’s like to have a rough year. He told me that he doesn’t want to press charges . . . as long as you make sure that Jackson gets the appropriate psychological evaluation and treatment.”

Mr. Whittemore takes a deep breath. “What happened with Lydia?”

“That’s a good question,” Stilinski says, “and I don’t have a thorough answer. What we know is that Danny came over one night and found them, let’s say, romantically involved. He had a suspicion that something was up, so he separated them. He talked to Lydia and thought that she seemed kind of ‘spacey’ and not really all there, is how he put it. So he called Stiles to come pick her up. Lydia doesn’t remember any of what happened, and Jackson insists that the encounter was consensual.”

There’s a long silence. Mrs. Whittemore lets out a shaky laugh and says, “I, I’m sorry, this is just a lot to suddenly take in. We knew he had been moody lately, but . . .”

“I know,” Stilinski says. “I’m a father too, and God knows that Stiles has had his rough patches. Enough to give me a lot of gray hair. I don’t want to put Jackson in jail – now or in a year or in five years. But he needs help, and I want to make sure that he gets it.”

Mr. Whittemore nods. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes. He knows damn well that Stilinski is being a lot nicer than he needs to be. The stunt with the brakes would be enough for an attempted murder charge. Whether or not the taped confession would be admissible in a court of law is a subject they could debate, but with the lack of remorse he showed, no judge or jury would be inclined to cut him any slack. “We’ll talk to him.” He reaches out and puts an arm around his wife, who has started to cry. “Thank you. For . . . for bringing this to us directly.”

Stilinski nods. He and Whittemore shake hands, and he tells Whittemore to call him any time if he needs help finding the right resources. Whittemore offers to reimburse him for any costs associated with getting the Jeep fixed after the accident, and Stilinski says he would appreciate that. Nothing is said about what will happen if Jackson pulls another stunt. Nothing needs to be said.

Stiles has spent this entire conversation waiting down the street in his shiny new rental car, which he already hates because it isn’t his Jeep. It’s a Honda Civic, the dorkiest, most sensible car on the planet. He’s sitting there with the heat on, Derek sitting in the passenger seat, both of them just listening. When Stilinski leaves, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “That went better than expected,” he says. The admissibility of the tape had concerned him. Jackson’s father is a lawyer, and he could have tried to argue, but Lydia had been adamant that he wouldn’t. Because this isn’t about whether or not he has the evidence to convict Jackson in a court of law. It’s about the fact that their son has done something terrible, that their son needs help.

“I keep telling you that Jackson’s parents are human beings,” Lydia remarks from the back seat. She had claimed a ticket to this event as well, and Stiles hadn’t argued. She certainly had a right to it. Erica has come along as well, mostly because she, like Derek, doesn’t feel entirely comfortable letting Stiles out of her sight right now. Physically, he’s almost entirely healed from his accident, although he’s still feeling a little dicey about the lacrosse game on Saturday. Mentally, he’s been a little more than edgy, but more of an excited edgy than a frustrated edgy. Things are finally _happening_ , and he feels far better about everything than before.

They sit there until Jackson’s car zooms up into the driveway. Danny gets out of the passenger seat, waves, and heads to his own car, which is parked on the street. Once Jackson is inside, he veers and jogs down to where Stiles is parked. Stiles will give the damned Honda one thing – it allows him to be incognito. No one would ever look for him in a car like that.

Danny opens the passenger side door and squeezes in beside Lydia. “How’d it go?” he asks anxiously.

“With the Whittemores and my dad, fine,” Stiles says. “Now the other shoe drops.”

Danny winces, but doesn’t protest. But he winces again, harder, when they hear Whittemore say, “Jackson, we need to talk.”

“Yeah, what,” Jackson says, in his usual brusque tone.

“Come sit down with me,” Whittemore says. Stiles hopes they stay in the living room. They’re prepared that they might have to intervene here. He’s hoping that deep down, or maybe even not so deep, Jackson loves his adoptive parents. It might be the only thing that protects them during this conversation, because he’s sure that Jackson is going to flip his shit. “Your mother and I are concerned about you.”

“I’m fine,” Jackson says. “Everything’s fine. Better than ever.”

Whittemore gives a little sigh. “This rivalry you’ve got going on with the Stilinski kid . . . you’re taking it way too far. I know that he’s dating Lydia and that must be really hard for you, but what you did to his car was a crime. A _serious_ crime, Jackson. If he had been killed, you could have been charged with first degree murder. As it is, you’re lucky that you’re not being charged with attempted murder, or at the very least aggravated assault . . .”

Jackson just laughs. “I don’t know what that little bitch told you, but – ”

“Jackson,” his father interrupts gently, “they’ve got you on a recording, admitting you did it.”

Silence.

“Furthermore, this whole thing with Lydia, that . . . that’s disturbing on a level that I _never_ would have worried about with you,” his father continues, his voice trembling a little. “You need help, Jackson. I know that you’ve always been anxious to prove yourself, to do well at everything, but – ”

“Hey, why don’t you just lay off me?” Jackson says loudly. “For the first time in my life, I’m actually getting the things I want. Is it that hard for you to accept that?”

There’s a long pause. Then his father says, “I’ve set up an appointment for you with a psychologist tomorrow. Not here, in Modesto. I know it’s a bit of a drive, but – ”

“I’m not going to any God damned counselor,” Jackson says. “I’m fine.”

“Jackson,” his father says sharply, a hint of steel creeping into his voice. “You are going to go see this counselor. Because if you don’t, I’m . . . your mother and I are prepared to have you admitted to a hospital – ”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jackson asks incredulously.

“Jackson, this is _serious_ ,” Whittemore shouts. “You tried to _kill someone_. You tried to rape your ex-girlfriend. That behavior is _deeply_ concerning. And maybe your mother and I are somewhat at fault because we’ve always spoiled you, we’ve taught you that you can have anything you want, but you _can’t_ , son, and I – ”

“I’m not your son,” Jackson snaps.

“Yes, you are,” Whittemore says wearily, the automatic response of someone who has had that argument many times. “In every way except genetically, yes, you are my son, and by God we are going to take care of this. You are _going_ to that psychologist tomorrow, and she’s going to do an evaluation, and if she decides you need to be admitted to the hospital for the safety of yourself and those around you, then that’s what we’re going to do. Because I’m not going to sit by while you hurt people – while you hurt yourself.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jackson snaps, and then there are footsteps and the noise of a door slamming.

Danny grimaces. “Could’ve gone worse, I guess . . .”

Lydia reaches out and grips his hand, then addresses Stiles. “Do you think he’ll be admitted?”

“No,” Stiles says. “He’s too smart for that. Now that he knows his parents know, he’ll play it down, be teary and apologetic, rather than an asshole. He doesn’t want people thinking he’s a sociopath, so he’ll say he didn’t _realize_ how serious it all was. But it’ll scare the crap out of him. So either he’ll steer clear of us and give us some breathing room, or he’ll do something gigantic and in all likelihood kill us all.”

“Way to be an optimist, Stiles,” Erica says, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, I said ‘or’,” Stiles says.

Danny rubs both hands over his face. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says, “but Stiles, you may want to skip the lacrosse game on Saturday.”

“Yeah, I was already thinking about that anyway,” Stiles says, rubbing at the fading bruise on his chest. “Even if I felt able to play, I’m pretty sure most responsible adults that don’t know I have accelerated healing would have apoplexy if I tried. So I’ll sit it out. But let me know if anything happens, if you need us for anything.”

“I will.” Danny hesitates. “Thanks. I think . . . I hope this will help him.”

He gets out of the car without another word and heads back towards his own. Stiles waits until he’s gotten in and driven away before he heads back home.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I remember who had come up with the term 'personal murder lizard'. I laugh every time I see it used.

 

Jackson isn’t in school until after lunch the next day, and his sullen look has progressed into one that’s practically rage. He can’t even look at Stiles without obviously becoming homicidal. Derek stays pressed extremely close to Stiles all day. Even worse, Harris has taken to following him around again. He seems to think that Stiles and Derek won’t dare try anything while the lawsuit is being considered. The worst part is that he’s right. Every time Stiles turns around, he sees the jerk’s smirking face.

After school, they go down to the clinic. Scott has called ahead to make sure that Deaton will be available, and he’s cleared some time off his schedule. He typically reserves Friday for surgeries or procedures, and so there aren’t many regular appointments. Allison goes with them, because Scott wants moral support.

“So . . . we’ve been talking to Stone,” Scott says, obviously anxious. “Stiles did a little research and, I guess, this debt you owe him . . . it’s because you two were trying to do some spell to unlock your inner power, right? But it didn’t work.”

Deaton sighs and nods. “We were young. It seemed like a good idea. It wasn’t.”

“Okay, but . . . we figured that you think the reason the spell didn’t work is because you didn’t have enough belief, right? That you had doubts at the last minute.” When Deaton nods again, Scott says, “But that’s not what happened. Stone knew it wouldn’t work. He sabotaged it on purpose so he could save you and put you in his debt.”

There’s a long pause. Deaton lets out a slow sigh. “If only that surprised me . . . he admitted this?”

Scott squirms uncomfortably. “Well, not in so many words, but he definitely didn’t deny it when Stiles said it.”

Deaton folds his hands in front of himself. Then he nods. “Thank you for telling me. But I can’t help but assume you had a reason why.”

“Stone told us that you have something that he wants,” Scott says. “We were hoping you would tell us what it is.”

“I’m sorry,” Deaton says. “I can’t tell you that.”

Scott looks at Stiles, not sure where they should go from here. Stiles takes a deep breath and swallows his frustration. “Look,” he says, “we know that you cared for this guy. That he was like a brother to you. But the guy you’re trying to protect, he doesn’t exist anymore, if he ever did. He’s given himself over to the black magic, and there’s no coming back from that once you’ve gone that far. He did it voluntarily, he made that choice and he knew the consequences. You’re living proof that it didn’t have to be that way. You don’t owe him anything.”

“Even if Sebastian sabotaged the spell, I did have doubts,” Deaton says. “So the spell would have backfired regardless of what he did.”

“Does that even matter?” Stiles asks. “I mean, I don’t think that’s how debt works. I could put a gun to your head but then decide not to shoot you. Do you owe me for that? Hell, no. You can’t give people points just for deciding not to shoot you.”

Deaton shakes his head quietly. “I don’t owe Sebastian because he saved my life. I owe him because he saved my soul. Because I saw what he was becoming. And that’s why I was able to pull myself back from the edge. For twenty years, every time I’ve been tempted, I saw the look on his face after that spell failed. And for twenty years, I’ve been able to resist the temptation.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you were able to do that because of your own strength?” Scott asks. “Not because Stone took the wrong road?”

“It has,” Deaton says, and smiles slightly, “but I know better.”

“So as long as he’s out there being bad, you’re able to keep being good,” Stiles says. His tone is disgusted. He can’t help it; he feels so disappointed. “Well, doesn’t that just suck for everyone that he hurts. You’re so busy being a paragon of virtue on your own time that you won’t help us stop him.”

For the first time, Deaton looks angry. “You don’t know how hard it is to – ”

“I don’t _care_ how hard it is!” Stiles shouts, finally losing his temper. “We all have our God damned crosses to bear. I have a pack to protect. And the plain fact of the matter is that if your choice is to protect Stone rather than help me protect my pack, then you’re my enemy just like he is. Do think that I haven’t noticed that both times we approached him on his turf, he was ready for us, and the only person not in the pack who knew where we were going was _you_? Did you tip him off? Did you warn him that we were coming? Jesus, Deaton, I want to trust you. I do. Because Derek’s parents trusted you, and, and Scott trusts you, but I fucking don’t, and you sure as hell aren’t making me want to. And I _will_ find out what you took from him and what you’re hiding, because that’s what I _do_.”

He can’t even handle it anymore; he turns and stalks out of the room. Derek follows him. Stiles can hear Scott awkwardly apologizing behind him, but he doesn’t care as long as Scott comes with him, which he does. Allison quietly closes the door to the clinic behind them and waits until they’re all in the car. “Now what?” she asks.

“There’s only one thing Deaton can have that Stone would want,” Stiles says. “Stone burns everything he leaves behind. Deaton must have something that once belonged to him. Something that would be magically powerful.”

“That could be anything,” Derek says. “They lived together for six months.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It can’t be something obvious. Because it seems like Stone didn’t know he had it until recently.”

“How would he have found out?” Scott asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know!” Stiles slams his hand down on the steering wheel. “God damn it! I don’t understand why he won’t help us.”

“Let’s leave it alone for now,” Allison says. “Stone isn’t only here for whatever Dr. Deaton has. We’re going to have to get rid of him one way or another. So let’s work on finding a way.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles spends the lacrosse game in the stands with the others, because he hates sitting on the bench. Besides that, odds are good that if he’s on the bench, at some point Finstock will ‘forget’ that he’s supposed to be sitting out, and try to tag him in. Scott’s in fine form, as is Isaac, but Danny is tense and distracted and doing a fairly lousy job. Jackson gets sent to the bench by the referee after his third foul in the first quarter, rages so badly that even Finstock seems nervous, and then storms off the field altogether. Danny’s able to pull himself together after that, but as behind as they are and with both Jackson and Stiles off the field, they lose the game 4-2. Nobody goes home happy.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do about any of this, and it doesn’t help that his father has told him there’s a preliminary hearing in Harris’ case set for the following Wednesday. He’s actually beginning to look forward to seeing Gwen again, if only because it’ll be an hour that he can swear and bitch and moan all he wants without being judged for it.

He’s hopeful that Sunday will be a nice, quiet day that he can use to catch up on his school work. That could not possibly be further from what actually happens.

Danny calls around ten to say that Jackson had called him and was coming over to his place. Stiles knows from his little bugs that Jackson is grounded and shouldn’t be going anywhere, but he doesn’t mention that to Danny as it won’t make any difference. Jackson hasn’t said anything to Danny at all about his parents’ ultimatum or his visit to the psychologist. Since he’s not in a psych ward, Stiles presumes that he was able to convince the psychologist that he’s not an immediate danger to anyone else, despite that being obviously untrue. But his parents want him home at all times unless he’s in school or at lacrosse practice. Jackson clearly doesn’t care what they want.

As it turns out, Danny’s parents are out of town. His father travels a lot on business, and at the moment is in Hawaii, and decided to take his wife since that’s where they’re from. They had asked Danny if he wanted to come, but he had opted out, telling them he didn’t want to miss the lacrosse game. Danny’s seventeen, and he says he’s spent weekends on his own before. But he’s obviously nervous that Jackson wanted to come over, rather than go out some place.

At about one PM, Stiles gets a text from Danny that reads, ‘He’s working up to something’. Ten minutes later, ‘Things are going downhill fast’ and then five minutes after that, ‘I don’t think I can stop him’. Stiles decides it’s past time that they should drive over to Danny’s and make sure that everything’s okay.

Unfortunately, the pack isn’t together. Derek’s been itching to go to his studio, and for once he doesn’t think Stiles would be the best companion. Stiles is too tense and edgy, and he would pace and be distracting. So Isaac and Boyd go with him, because they can entertain themselves and not look over his shoulder. Scott and Allison are on a date, leaving Stiles with Lydia and Erica, which is certainly his idea of a good day. He makes little fruit tarts while they experiment with makeup and hairstyles and Lydia talks about the book she’s reading right now, which is by Stephen Hawking. It’s the kind of surreal experience that only his pack can provide, and for the first time in days, he was starting to relax before Danny started texting.

He sends a quick text to Scott, but calls Derek, knowing that if Derek doesn’t actually hear his voice, he’ll react badly. “Hey,” he says, “things don’t seem to be going well at Danny’s. I’m going to head over. You guys can meet us there.”

Derek agrees, and he’s anxious, but in control. Stiles grabs the keys to his stupid rented Honda and the three of them get in the car. He’s the closest to Danny’s house, which is in the same gorgeous part of town as Jackson and Lydia’s. Stiles isn’t sure exactly what Danny’s father does, but he knows it has something to do with computer software, which explains both why Danny is so good with computers and also why they have such a nice house.

The front door is unlocked, and nobody answers when Stiles rings the bell, so they go inside. A quick search of the house turns up nothing, but then Lydia points out a window to show that they’re in the backyard. Jackson’s drawn a large circle on the concrete by the pool in red paint, which has Danny looking like he’s about to have apoplexy. As Stiles inches the door open silently, he hears Danny say, “Holy shit, Jackson, you can’t just – ”

“Shut up,” Jackson snaps. “I’m trying to concentrate, asshole.”

Stiles eases out onto the back porch. Jackson is focused on his spell; he doesn’t look up. Danny doesn’t notice, either. Stiles reaches for his .38, changes his mind, and goes for the mountain ash instead. Erica and Lydia have both shifted into their partial forms; he’ll rely on them to deal out any physical damage that needs to be done.

Whatever spell Jackson is doing, it looks bad. The red circle is almost six feet wide, and there are a bunch of symbols painted on both the inside and the outside. Stiles hesitates. He’s worried that if he screws with the spell, it’ll blow up in all their faces. It might be better to wait and see what the result is – but he’s pretty sure that will end in disaster, too.

That leaves ‘talking Jackson down’ as the only option that’s not practically guaranteed to get everyone killed, and somehow it seems like the worst of the lot. Looking at Jackson’s face as he tells Danny to shut up, Stiles knows that they’ve lost him completely. They’ve pushed him too far. Jackson resented being adopted, but he was still terrified that these parents would give him up, too. Stiles had given them a reason to. That was something Jackson would never forgive.

His moment of indecision is a moment too long. The ground starts to tremble, and inside the circle, it starts to _grow_. A figure erupts from the ground, shaking off pieces of concrete and dirt as it emerges. It starts only about a foot long, but it just gets bigger and bigger as the spell continues to shape it. What’s left at the end is a monster that’s nearly twenty feet long. It’s shaped somewhat like a lizard, a Komodo dragon, but the tail is longer and flexible, whipping around sharply. It has a mouth full of fangs that are black and iridescent, and a tongue of the same color, while its scales are completely white, eyes red.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Stiles blurts out, unable to help it.

“Stilinski! You’re just in time, you piece of shit!” Jackson says cheerfully. “Where’s your boyfriend? On his way, I hope. My friend here has time for all of you.”

“What the fuck is that thing?” Danny asks, taking a few unsteady steps backwards as the monster continues to shake off the earth it emerged from.

“It’s _mine_ ,” Jackson says, gloating, and then he points to Stiles and says one word in a twisty language that Stiles doesn’t know, and the lizard leaps forward. Stiles has no time to respond beyond what’s already in his hand. He throws a handful of mountain ash in the creature’s face. It doesn’t even slow down. Once it’s summoned, it’s there, physical, and the powder to block magic makes no difference to it.

Erica leaps over Stiles’ shoulder and lands right on the lizard’s neck just before its head can impact with Stiles’ ribs. It throws her off, and she goes skidding across the concrete and into the pool with a splash. It’s enough time for Stiles to get out his gun, but then he hesitates again. Neighbors will hear shots. If the police come to investigate –

Then the monster is on him. It knocks him to the ground, slinking forward with astonishing speed. He sees its jaws and thinks, _this is going to hurt_ , but then there’s a tremendous roar and Derek arrives, fully shifted. He stands protectively over Stiles and growls at the beast. It doesn’t make any difference, but the impact of Boyd and Isaac against its side does. They go down into a heap of snarling, twisting flesh. Stiles hears a yip and feels a sharp pain through his leg, although he knows it isn’t his, and scrambles to his feet.

“Stay down, you idiot!” Lydia shouts at him before she dives into the fray. The lizard stands up on its back legs like Godzilla and shakes the wolves loose. They go scattering in every direction.

Jackson laughs, delighted, and then points at Stiles again, repeating himself in that strange language. But the monster turns and charges him instead. Jackson goes white and stumbles backwards, still shouting, but it doesn’t slow the creature down at all. There’s a twang from the back porch, and an arrow lodges in the monster’s shoulder. It roars in pain and thrashes for a moment, but it doesn’t slow down very much. Jackson just stands there, a bewildered, lost look on his face, like he can’t quite understand what’s happening. Stiles knows exactly what’s happening. The only question is whether the creature will grab Jackson in its jaws and shake, or simply smash him aside with the force of that long, flexible neck.

It goes for the latter. The head swoops to one side and then back towards Jackson – who isn’t there anymore. Danny is. Danny, who has been standing just as frozen as Jackson, suddenly leaps forward and pushes Jackson down on his ass. The broad side of the monster’s head hits him and sends him flying. He hits the stone wall on the other side of the yard with so much force that even the humans present can hear his bones breaking, then drops to the ground and lies there unmoving.

Jackson screams. So does Lydia. And then she jumps on the creature, her jaws sinking down into the flesh on the underside of his neck. The scales are hard, tough, but Stiles knows she gets through because dark green blood splashes down onto the concrete. “Scott!” he shouts, running over to Danny. Scott is beside him moments later. Blood of the more traditional color stains the pavement around Danny’s unconscious body.

“Oh, fuck,” Scott breathes out, when he sees the extent of the damage. They hear another splash. Lydia has gone into the pool. Stiles looks up as he feels her presence flickering at the end of their bond. She’s unconscious, sinking. Isaac dives in after her, grabbing her around the waist and towing her back to the surface. Boyd leans over to heave them out, but then the lizard’s tail whips out and he winds up in the water as well.

“How bad is it?” Stiles asks, but he can see how bad it is. He can see that the back of Danny’s head is covered in blood, see the trickle coming out of his mouth.

“Internal bleeding for sure,” Scott says, pressing down lightly on Danny’s abdomen. “Jesus, I think his skull is probably fractured. He – Stiles, I don’t think – ”

Derek is fighting the monster one-on-one now. He has more experience than the rest of them, moving and dodging the creature’s blows, but never really able to land one of his own, either. Stiles curses and crawls across the pavement. He grabs Jackson by the ear and shouts, “Do you know how to get rid of it?”

Stunned, shaken, Jackson stammers, “It – it’s s-supposed to obey commands – ”

“Fuck,” Stiles bites out. The others have managed to climb out of the pool and come to Derek’s assistance, except for Lydia, who’s still unconscious, and Isaac, who’s standing over her protectively. Allison is still on the porch, but she can’t take a shot with the wolves tangled up with it, and Scott is staying with Danny, trying to stop the bleeding from the gash on the back of his head. There’s no time to call Deaton for help, if he would even come. “Derek!” he shouts. “Get Allison a shot! Everyone else, get clear!”

Derek glances at him and then charges forward, running underneath the lizard. The other wolves just jump in every direction, trying to get out of the way. Derek tumbles, one paw coming up to swipe at the monster’s tender belly. It gives a roar that’s almost a scream and turns. There’s a sharp twang and an arrow lodges directly in the monster’s eye. It goes deep, so deep that only a few inches of the arrow are left visible. The lizard lurches forward and collapses right on top of Derek.

“Fuck!” Stiles says again, but Boyd is already there, grunting with effort as he heaves the body of the monster off Derek. He crawls out, covered in dark green blood, but alive and basically uninjured. The creature shudders, but doesn’t get up again, and a moment later it goes still.

Stiles makes a number of mental notes in rapid succession: 1) congratulate Allison later on her aim, 2) it’s barely fifty degrees out and the water was probably even colder, so the wolves are risking hypothermia and need to get out of their wet clothes, 3) he has no idea who to call for ‘personal murder lizard corpse disposal’, and 4) most importantly, Danny is in a fuckload of trouble.

“Call an ambulance,” he barks out, and Allison grabs her cell phone, since almost everyone else with one took a dive into the pool. “Scott – ”

Scott shakes his head and whispers, “Stiles, I – I don’t think he’ll make it. He must have hit the wall going thirty miles an hour. His head has practically been cracked in half.”

“Derek!” Stiles shouts, and Derek is by his side a moment later. “We’re going to turn him.”

“That could kill him – ” Derek begins.

“Yeah, well, doing nothing _definitely_ will,” Stiles says. But then he hesitates. “Jackson!” he shouts. “Danny’s unconscious. He’s dying, you fuckwit, and we need to do something about it. We’re not supposed to turn anyone without consent. You know him better than us. What do you want me to do?”

Jackson swallows and then looks down at Danny’s face, slack and unconscious, and the crimson blood staining the concrete and all over Scott’s hands. “Do it,” he whispers.

“And you understand that he’ll belong to me?” Stiles presses. “That he’ll be part of my pack? That he’ll be _mine_ , and not yours?”

“Do it!” Jackson screams.

Stiles grabs Derek by the hand and Derek’s eyes flare from silvery-blue to crimson red. He sinks his teeth into Danny’s forearm. The teenager lets out a weak little cry, returning to some semblance of consciousness. Then they hear sirens.

“Fuck, this is bad, what do we tell them?” Scott asks, his voice shaking.

Stiles looks up and around, taking in their surroundings. He sees a balcony on the third floor and points. “There. He fell. We were goofing around up there, he tried to do a flip, and he fell and landed down here. We called 911. Everyone who isn’t me, Jackson, or Scott, get into the house and go up to the second floor. Get your wet clothes off and steal some towels to dry off.” He looks at Jackson. “Can you do a glamour?”

“A – an illusion spell?” Jackson asks, but then nods. “Yeah, yeah, I, I think so.”

“Good. Then your job is to keep the paramedics from noticing the gigantic lizard corpse on the other side of the yard. Because otherwise, we be fucked. Can you do that?”

Jackson nods and swallows. The wolves hasten to obey, jogging into the house and up the stairs. Stiles trains his attention back on Danny. The bond won’t really form for hours yet, and the healing won’t kick in until some time after that. But if the hospital can keep him alive that long, he’ll make a full recovery. “Scott, call Deaton,” he says. “He told me that he has contacts at the hospital. We’re going to need them. I’m sorry if he’s pissed at me, but tell him an innocent life is in the balance.”

Scott nods and grabs his phone. And then the paramedics are there. Jackson holds his own; his spell is shaky enough that _Stiles_ can still see the monster, but the paramedics aren’t looking for it and are far more focused on Danny, so they don’t see it at all. Scott goes in the ambulance with Danny. Jackson moves as if to go, but Stiles grabs him by the arm. “No,” he says quietly. “You are coming with me. You are going in a mountain ash circle until I figure out what to do with you.”

Rage flickers back onto Jackson’s face. “I’m going with Danny. He’s my friend – ”

“He’s nearly dead _because of you_ ,” Stiles snaps. “You have to be contained before you do any more damage. It’s a mountain ash circle or I swear to God I will put a bullet in your brain and leave your body here with the monster’s. Take your pick.”

Jackson’s face twists in anguish. He swallows and says, “I’ll go with you.”

“Good choice,” Stiles says. He goes into the house, his hand still locked around Jackson’s wrist. “Allison,” he says, as the others come down from where they’ve been hiding on the second floor. “Call your dad. He’s got to know _somebody_ who can come clean this mess up. We’ll pay whatever we need to, to get it looking normal again so Danny’s parents don’t find out about this.”

Allison nods and turns away, fumbling for her phone. Stiles continues, “We’re heading back to my place. We’ll get Jackson inside a mountain ash circle and then I’ll be going to the hospital to see Danny – yes, Lydia, you can come too,” he says, before she can ask.

“What about Jackson’s parents?” Erica asks.

“They’re just going to have to wonder where he is for a while,” Stiles says. “I don’t want him contacting them. We’ll take his phone.”

“I’m standing right here,” Jackson snaps.

“Shut up,” Stiles replies, not even looking at him. “You’re going to be lucky if you get motherfucking bathroom breaks. Now, I’m going to let your arm go. You are going to walk with me out to my car. You’re going to do it willingly, because I don’t want Danny’s neighbors seeing me dragging you around. Is that clear?”

Jackson clenches his jaw, but then nods. They all go out to the car together. Stiles sticks close to him, but he does as he’s told. In the Stilinski house, they move the furniture around to again clear some space in the living room. Stiles decides to take pity on Jackson, more because he doesn’t want the other teenager pissed off at him when they’re getting through to him than because he actually feels bad. He puts Jackson inside the circle with a gallon bottle of water, a box of crackers and a couple apples, and the remote to the television and DVD player. After a moment to consider, he adds one of the bean bag chairs, a pillow, and a blanket in case he wants to sleep.

“I want two people watching him at all times,” he says. “You’ll have to work it out amongst yourselves. Don’t answer the door, don’t answer the phone, keep the curtains drawn. I don’t want anyone seeing him in here. Lydia, Derek, you’re with me.” He hesitates. “Allison, you too. You can drive Scott home; he won’t want to hang around the hospital all day.”

The others hasten to go with him. Derek decides to go as a human so he’ll be able to talk, but brings his vest just in case. When they get to the hospital, Scott reports that Danny has been taken into surgery, but Deaton has talked to the doctors and so they won’t be surprised if things take unusual turns. Allison gets a text message from her father and tells Stiles that things at the Mahealani house are being taken care of. He says, “Tell your dad I owe him one,” and Allison nods and leaves with Scott on her arm.

Barely a minute later, they’ve just settled into chairs in the waiting room when Deaton comes out of the back. He sees them and looks away for a moment, but then walks toward them. Stiles gets to his feet as he approaches. He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “I, uh, I’m sorry about the other day . . .”

“No, you’re not,” Deaton says, with a faint smile. “And you shouldn’t be.” He hesitates. “Your friend is in very serious condition. They don’t know whether or not he’s going to make it. Let’s . . . let’s talk about this later. After we know. Okay?”

Stiles nods. “Okay,” he says.

Deaton puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes for a moment, then turns to walk away. At the last minute, he half-turns back and says, “It’s a bullet.”

“What?” Stiles asks, taken off guard.

“What Stone wants. It’s the bullet that nearly killed him when he was six years old.” Without another word, Deaton turns and leaves the hospital.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	20. Chapter 20

After some intercession from Dr. Deaton and Melissa McCall, Stiles is allowed into Danny’s hospital room with Derek and Lydia in tow. It’s been about six hours since he was injured, and he’s been out of surgery for about two. He’s heavily bandaged, but breathing on his own, with only a nasal cannula for support. That’s good news, since an hour previous he had still been on a ventilator. Despite the ominous rumbles and talk about life support and even organ donorship at first, Danny is starting to rapidly improve as the werewolf healing kicks in. Stiles won’t let himself breathe a sigh of relief until Danny actually wakes up, but the panic is fading.

He’s growing to really hate hospitals. It’s not as visceral a reaction as his claustrophobia is, but it’s getting close. He feels pent-up, trapped, even though he has plenty of space. He hasn’t needed to leave. Periodic texts from the others have informed them that after indulging in a half hour long sulk, Jackson curled up and went to sleep. He’s slept like the dead, not surprising given how much magic it must have taken to summon up that monster, and so Stiles has not needed to go home to check on him. That’s good, because he really doesn’t want to leave until Danny’s woken. When he does, he’s going to want his alpha.

Then there was the interesting text message conversation between himself and his father that had taken place about an hour after their arrival at the hospital. Sheriff Stilinski had texted him to say, ‘Jackson’s parents called me. He’s not at home like he should be. Watch your back.’

Stiles texted back, ‘We have Jackson in the penalty box.’

Almost ten minutes passed before Stilinski replied, ‘I don’t want to know. What should I tell his parents?’

‘Nothing,’ Stiles replied, and now he has the distinct impression that his father is annoyed with him.

He sits down in the chair next to Danny’s bed and rubs both hands over his face. “I should never have gotten him involved in this,” he mutters.

Lydia pulls another chair up beside Danny, angling it so she’s partially facing Stiles, so one of her knees is brushing his. The contact is for both her own comfort and her alpha’s. Derek is standing behind Stiles, pressed to the back of his chair, close enough for Stiles to lean back into him. He reaches down to put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. A hug would have been better, but there’s only so much room, just like there are only two chairs. He knows better than to bring in another, in case the doctors and nurses need room.

“Don’t be stupid,” Lydia tells Stiles. Even though the words are harsh, her tone is comforting. “You didn’t. All you did was give him some direction. He came to you, remember?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I just can’t get over the nagging feeling that Jackson is _so_ not worth all this. Although, I guess . . . he did the right thing, when Danny’s life was on the line. At least he still cares about _something_ other than himself.”

Lydia reaches out and curls her fingers over Danny’s leg, holding him through the blanket. “God knows I’m angry at Jackson. I would love to break some of his bones, I really would. But Danny has known him longer. And always known him better.” She looks over at her unconscious friend. “Maybe he’s just a better and more forgiving person than I am. I don’t know.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Stiles says, with a sigh. “But I guess this means that there’s hope for Jackson yet.” He studies the monitors for a few minutes. He’s gradually learning what they mean and how to read them. Everything looks stable. “I think he’s doing better.”

Lydia relaxes and lays her head down on her arm. She looks more vulnerable than normal, with her hair in disarray and her makeup smudged. “Am I a bad person for being a little happy about this? About having him in the pack?”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person.” Stiles reaches out and rubs her knee where it knocks against his; not in a romantic way, but just because that’s the easiest part of her to reach. “I mean, it wasn’t fun getting here, but the outcome’s not a bad thing. Not for us, at least. It’s like . . . I’m not _happy_ that Peter went off his head and bit you and Scott, but I _am_ happy that we have the pack. You know?”

Lydia nods. “Thanks.” After a moment, she smiles a little. “It’ll be nice to have someone completely well-adjusted for once.”

Derek lets out a snort of disbelieving laughter. “Not possible. Not in this pack. There must be something.”

“Well, given how much time we’re going to have to spend keeping him from climbing you like a tree . . .” Stiles says.

“I don’t even know what that _means_ ,” Derek says.

Lydia’s head comes up. “Wait. Really?”

“Yes, really.” Derek scowls, but on its own, it’s more like a petulant pout.

“You clearly don’t spend enough time on the internet.” Stiles regains some of his usual spirit. “It means he wants to jump your bones. Do the horizontal mambo. Knock boots. Bump uglies. Am I coming through here?” In an exaggerated tone, he says, “Do you understand me?”

Derek puts a hand over Stiles’ mouth. “I don’t know.” His tone is amused. “Sometimes when you get going, I just tune you out.”

“Mm mmn mm mmmf,” Stiles replies.

“In any case,” Lydia says, “ ‘I will climb you like a tree,’ is both a compliment and a warning that if you hold still too long, there will be imminent sexual happenings.”

“I see,” Derek says.

Stiles pulls Derek’s hand away from his mouth and snickers. “Maybe you should give him a kiss to see if it wakes him up, charming.”

Derek picks up Stiles’ chair, Stiles and all, and moves it out of the way. Then he leans over and presses his lips carefully against the younger man’s. It’s soft and non-sexual, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. He spends a moment just watching Danny, then rubs his cheek to Danny’s before standing up. “I don’t think it worked.”

“Ho . . . holy crap,” Lydia says, fanning herself. “I need a little alone time after that.”

Stiles clears his throat. “Just when I think I’m a zero on the Kinsey scale,” he agrees. “Danny’s gonna flip his shit when he finds out he slept through that.”

“I’m pretty sure that just being part of a pack moves you to at least an automatic two,” Derek says. “Otherwise you’d be uncomfortable with all the physical contact. Should I leave you two alone?”

“No, but you should do it again so I can get a photo,” Lydia says, whipping out her phone.

“What?” Derek gives her an incredulous look. “No!”

“But we have to,” she says. “Otherwise Danny won’t believe it ever happened.”

“Think of it as his first lesson in wolf senses. He’ll have to figure out whether you’re lying or not on his own.” Derek grins at Lydia. Not the scary grin, but the one that means he’s honestly amused.

Stiles just shakes his head at both of them, and the conversation falters while the nurse comes in to check Danny’s vitals. She reassures them that everything is stable, and then tells them that they were able to get a hold of Danny’s parents, and they’re taking the next flight home. Stiles interprets that as ‘so enjoy your ICU privileges while you’ve got them’. He exchanges a few quick texts with Scott to be assured that Jackson isn’t causing any trouble. Several hours pass in silence before Danny lets out a slight groan and shifts slightly.

“Hey, Danny,” Stiles says, leaning over him. “Thinking about joining us?”

Danny’s immediate thought was to wonder if he had drunk too much the previous evening as his mind starts to rise out of its sleepy, foggy haze. It finally filters in that everything hurts. He tries to move, and that just makes things worse. All of it fades when he hears that voice saying his name. The pain, the confusion, it all gets pushed to the background as his attention is pulled to that voice. He realizes a second later that he knows that voice. Stiles, it’s Stiles. He opens his eyes, one hand reaching out blindly.

Stiles grabs that fumbling hand and grips it tightly. “You’re okay,” he says, his voice so firm that it’s almost a command. “You’re okay, Danny. Just take your time.”

Danny tries to curl his fingers around Stiles’ in a tight grip, but everything feels weak right now. Stiles’ words somehow make it easier to breathe and let him look around a little, although his gaze keeps going back to the younger teenager after only short periods away. He’s in a hospital. He _needs_ Stiles. Lydia’s here. Derek-the-hottie is here. No Jackson. There had been some sort of monster. He’s starting to remember bits and pieces. “What happened?” he asks, or at least tries to, but only gets the first word out. Then he starts hacking because his throat is so dry that it’s burning.

“I’m going to go get the doctor,” Lydia says quietly, and departs without another word. Stiles just continues to hold Danny’s hand while Derek goes over to the sink and gets him a little cup of water, holding it to his mouth.

“You were hurt,” Stiles tells Danny, as he takes careful sips. “Don’t worry about the details right this second, okay? The important part is that you’re going to be okay.”

Danny takes a few experimental sips, then nearly gulps the rest down, suddenly incredibly thirsty. Once the cup is empty, he looks back to Stiles. “Everyone else? Jackson? They’re all okay?”

“A few of the wolves got a little banged up, but yeah, they’re all doing a damned sight better than you are,” Stiles says, “and Jackson’s fine, if having a major freakout.” Stiles glances up as a nurse and doctor rush into the room, and lets go of Danny’s hand so he can move to the corner of the room, out of the way, while they check Danny over.

Danny’s gaze tracks Stiles, Lydia, and Derek. He really wishes that at least one of them was in touching distance. He does pay attention to the doctor telling him about his injuries, how well surgery went, and that if he keeps up at this rate of healing, he’ll be out of the hospital in a day or two. He nods, makes what he hopes are appropriate noises, but when the doctor’s gone, he turns back to Stiles. “What’s going on?” he asks. Because even drug-addled, he’s starting to see the oddities in his own behavior, and he’d have to be an idiot to miss the contradictions of what the doctor had said.

Stiles takes the chair back and waits until the nurse is gone. “You were hurt. Really badly hurt.” His voice is a little flat now, like he’s trying not to let his emotions show. “We were afraid you wouldn’t make it. So we turned you into a werewolf so you would have the faster, more capable healing.” He swallows convulsively, reaching for Danny’s hand but not taking it. “I’m sorry. We’re never, _ever_ supposed to turn someone without permission. But you . . .”

Derek comes up behind Stiles and wraps his arms around the younger man. “If . . . if you’re too angry with us to deal with us, I’ll make some calls and do everything I can to find you another pack to be part of.”

Danny watches the two of them, and for the first time, he somehow _really_ understands how the two of them are made for each other. And that Stiles would bend over backwards to fix this. Finally, he says, “Are you . . . apologizing for saving my life?”

Stiles manages a wan smile at this. “It’s kind of a joint apology for that and for putting you in a situation where turning you into a frickin’ werewolf was the only option.”

Danny’s hand twitches; he clearly wants to reach out. “You didn’t put me in this position. I kind of hounded you, remember? Even after learning that dying was totally an option.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “but it never seems real ‘til you get there. Trust me. I know.”

Danny reaches for Stiles again but then aborts the mission, something telling him that he should wait for Stiles’ permission. “Well, I’m not mad. I am thirsty.” Forget hand holding; he sort of wants to curl up in Stiles’ lap, which feels distinctly odd.

This time, Stiles sees the motion. He reaches out with one hand and grasps Danny’s; with the other, he smoothes Danny’s hair back and out of his face. “Lydia, would you get him a drink?” he asks, and she nods, taking the cup back over to the sink and filling it again. “The good news is that you’ll probably be feeling better in a few hours. The healing powers really do kick ass.”

“Thank God?” Danny takes the cup from Lydia and says, “So . . . is that bond you were talking about the reason I suddenly want to use you as a pillow?”

“What, you don’t think it’s my natural good looks and charm?” Stiles asks.

That earns Stiles a smile. “If it was Derek, maybe, but you aren’t exactly my type.”

“Touché,” Stiles says. “But yes. Wolves are . . .” He glances at Derek, and his lips quirk into a smile of his own. “Naturally tactile creatures. Which is how General Stoic over here puts it when what he really means is ‘Stiles, let me cuddle with you all the time’.”

Derek smiles. “Stiles, I’m going to wring your neck.” He sounds positively cheerful about it.

Stiles ignores him. “Other things you’re going to notice sooner rather than later: your sense of hearing and smell will be better. Particularly hearing, to the point where cell phones ringing and people whistling will drive you crazy. That’ll even out after a few days. You’re also going to be really hungry, really soon. The healing uses up a lot of energy, and your body is going to want fuel to replace it. Yes, before you ask, this is one reason why I’m always cooking.”

Danny huffs. “Well, now I know why Scott and Isaac make all those faces at practice. Finstock’s whistle.”

“Yep,” Stiles says. He hesitates, curling his hand around Danny’s, and says, “One more thing you should know . . . about Jackson. If you’re feeling up to it.”

Danny nods, even though he’s not sure he is. Better to get it over with.

“Since you were unconscious, we gave Jackson the choice of whether or not we should turn you,” Stiles says. “We had to ask _somebody_. He gave us permission.” He waits a beat. “I would have done it even if he had said no, if we’re going to be honest, but he said yes. He was willing to let you be part of my pack if it meant saving your life.”

Something in Danny abruptly relaxes. “Oh, thank God. He’s still in there.”

Stiles nods and squeezes his hand. “We’ll get him back. I swear to you, I don’t know _how_ yet, but . . . we’ll find a way.”

“Thank you,” Danny says. “For doing this for me.” Because now he somehow knows, without a doubt, that he is why Stiles is trying to save Jackson.

“For now, at least, we have him in the penalty box,” Stiles says, “but that won’t last forever. Hopefully we’ll get you out of here tomorrow so you can talk to him, because if anyone can talk sense into him, it’s gonna be you. After this, he might be willing to listen.”

“If not, I’ll punch him in the face,” Danny mutters, shifting a little as he tries to find a more comfortable position. “I’ve earned that.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Stiles says. His phone chirps, and he takes a look and laughs despite himself. “Well, the good news is that some, uh, some associates of mine have gotten your back yard taken care of. They even got all the red paint off the pavement. Apparently, Allison’s father was so impressed by the shot she used to take that motherfucker down that he’s offering to buy her a cheesecake of her choice. She says she’ll share it with you.”

“Awesome,” Danny says. He feels his eyelids drooping, which surprises him, given that he just woke up.

Derek notices and says, “The healing takes a lot of energy. You should sleep if you want.”

Danny nods, closes his eyes, then opens them again. He tries to think of a manly way to ask the question he wants to ask, and comes to the conclusion that there just isn’t one. “You guys . . .”

“Someone will be right here,” Lydia promises, folding his hand into hers. “It may not always be the three of us, but we won’t leave you alone.”

“Okay,” Danny says, glad that she didn’t make a big deal out of it. He closes his eyes and is asleep a few moments later.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Around nine PM, Jackson wakes up and starts bitching about everything he can think of. Stiles grudgingly leaves Danny’s hospital room for his house. Erica and Isaac come to pick him up; after some debate, Derek agrees to stay at the hospital with Danny. He’s the best thing they’ve got for an alpha stand-in, in case Danny wakes up again. Lydia obviously isn’t going anywhere, so they can watch out for each other.

Jackson has recovered enough to glare fiercely at Stiles when he enters. “You can’t fucking keep me in here forever,” he snarls.

“You’re right,” Stiles says, and sweeps his hand through the ash, breaking the circle. “With me.”

Jackson is obviously taken aback by this, but realizes soon enough that they’re only going as far as the bathroom. “Do you mind?” he asks.

“What, you think I’m stupid enough to turn around?” Stiles asks. “Be thankful I’m not offering to hold your dick. Go.”

Now Jackson is even more furious, but does his business without further complaint. Stiles waves him back into the other room and puts him right back in the circle. Before he seals him in, he hands over a bag from a local Chinese take-out place. Jackson gives him a suspicious look.

“Eat,” Stiles says. “I know you must be hungry as fuck after all that magic you did.”

Grumbling, Jackson pulls out a container of chicken lo mein and one of egg rolls, complete with sweet and sour sauce. He blinks at them and then says, “How did you know?”

“I asked Danny,” Stiles says, resisting the urge to add, ‘duh’.

“Danny’s awake? He’s okay?” Jackson demands.

“Yeah, he’s healing up all right,” Stiles says. “He’ll probably get out of the hospital some time tomorrow.”

Jackson folds his arms over his chest and snaps, “Then you didn’t need to turn him.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles asks. “You were _there_ while his brains were leaking out all over the pavement. Stop acting like such a fucking dick and eat your dinner.”

There’s a long moment while Jackson just glares at him, but then he picks up the food and starts shoving it into his mouth faster than could be considered dignified. Stiles sighs with some relief and backs off to let him have his dinner. He’s thinking about maybe taking a nap, since he’s home, but then of course the door opens and his father comes in. Sheriff Stilinski takes one look at Jackson inside the mountain ash circle, and clearly considers turning around and going right back the way he came.

“That bad, huh?” Stiles asks, and offers him the orange chicken he had gotten his father.

“Worse,” Stilinski says, accepting the food. “Jackson’s parents have been calling me just about every half hour. Someone saw him arrive at Danny’s, and then they found out Danny was hurt, and now they’re hysterical because they think Jackson pushed Danny off his balcony.”

Stiles grimaces. From the living room, Jackson nearly chokes on his lo mein. “What the fuck!” he shouts. “Why do they think I did that?”

“Because they think you’re psycho,” Stiles says. “Try to keep up.” To his father, he adds, “What did you tell them?”

“Per your . . . instructions,” Stilinski says dryly, “I haven’t told them anything.”

“Okay. Well, why don’t you give them a call and say Danny’s woken up, he’s going to make a full recovery, and he confirms that they were just goofing around, nobody pushed him. He didn’t know Jackson was grounded so he didn’t realize Jackson was supposed to be at home. He doesn’t know where Jackson went after he fell, but someone obviously called paramedics so clearly he took care of his friend. That ought to calm them down at least a little.”

Stilinski nods and reaches for his phone. Everyone else stays quiet while he makes this call, ending it with, “I’m sure he’s fine, Mike. I’ll track him down. Uh huh. Yes, I’ll keep you posted.”

Jackson waits until Sheriff Stilinski is off the phone before looking at Stiles and saying, again, “You can’t keep me in here forever.”

“Sad but true,” Stiles agrees. “Sooner rather than later, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with you. Until then, you’ll just have to try to enjoy our company.” He sees Jackson’s scowl grow deeper. “And since you’re wondering why your parents think you may have hurt Danny, I’ll take this opportunity to remind you that you _did_ hurt Danny. You may not have done it on purpose, but you still _did_ it. As for what we’re going to do with you, I’m thinking we’re going to have to find a way to take your magic away.”

“What?” Jackson’s voice rises; he actually sounds somewhat panicky. “You – you can’t do that!”

“Well, no, I can’t,” Stiles says, “but I think I know someone who can.” Seeing the look on Jackson’s face, he takes pity on him. “Magic is addictive, Jackson, and it’s gotten its hooks in you pretty deeply. You’re going to quit cold turkey, starting now. That is the beginning and end of your list of choices.”

“But . . .” Jackson looks so lost and bewildered that even Stiles starts to feel sorry for him.

“Look,” he says, “we can talk about this tomorrow. The important thing for now is that Danny’s going to be okay, your parents are worried but they don’t think you’re a budding serial killer, and I could really use a few hours of sleep, and . . . we have school tomorrow. Fuck. What’s _that_ about?” He rubs his hands over his face, trying to work this out. He hasn’t done a jot of his homework, so there’s really no point in going. “Derek and I will stay with Danny. Whoever has the fewest academics will stay with Jackson, so, Erica and . . .?”

“I will,” Isaac says. “I don’t mind missing my math test, that’s for sure. And everyone else has parents that the school might call.”

Stiles nods. His father sighs and says, “I’ll call the school and tell them you’re sick.”

Isaac gives him a smile that’s almost shy, that ‘thanks for being a better dad than my real dad’ smile that breaks everyone’s heart. “Thanks, Papa Stilinski.”

Stiles yawns and stretches. “Okay,” he says. “I’m going to nap ‘til I wake up screaming and then I’m going back to the hospital. The rest of you . . . do whatever. Someone . . . fuck, someone come cuddle with me, I’m done with this macho bullshit and Derek is still at the hospital. I need me some wolf snuggles or I won’t fall asleep at all.”

“You’re adorable,” Erica tells him, looping an arm around his waist. Allison comes over on his other side, smiling at him as she hooks an arm around his neck. “C’mon, let’s go pass out.”

As they go up the stairs, Stiles hears Jackson, who’s obviously pissed off about Stiles leaving the room with a gorgeous girl on each arm, say, “What the fuck is he talking about, ‘til he wakes up screaming?”

“You don’t want to know,” Scott says, “so don’t ask.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

True to the doctor’s word, Danny’s out of the hospital less than twenty-four hours later. That’s good, because every beep of a monitor is making him want to claw his own ears off. His parents are back from Hawaii, but he’s managed to convince them that really, the accident wasn’t that bad. He just fell off a balcony, it’s no big deal. Fortunately, his injuries have improved to the point that the doctor is able to reassure them that he’ll recover without incident.

Of course, the awkward problem is that Danny’s parents then want to take him home and fuss over him. Stiles is trying to find a way to solve this problem when Danny just gives him a reassuring ‘I’ve got this’ look and says, “Actually I’m gonna go hang out at Stiles’. I feel fine, honest. I’m sorry they dragged you back from Hawaii.”

“Are you sure?” his father says.

“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine,” Danny says.

Once his parents are gone and Danny’s been wheeled out of the hospital, Stiles says, “Dude, what? That was fucking awesome.”

“One of the benefits of being gay and having supportive parents is that they want to be supportive of _everything_ you do,” Danny says, getting in the front seat. “I mean, I could say anything from ‘I’m going to get a tattoo’ to ‘I’m changing my name to an apostrophe’ and they would just say, ‘If you think that’s the right decision for you, you should go for it, honey!’”

There’s a funny noise from the back seat that quickly erupts into an actual bubble of laughter from Derek. It’s over quickly, after which he raises a hand and says, “I’m okay.”

“Dude,” Stiles says.

“You . . . you made Derek laugh.” Lydia stares at Danny in open astonishment.

“Is that not normal?” Danny asks cautiously.

“Dude, look at him,” Stiles says, gesturing to Derek, who’s already scowling again. “Is that the face of someone who laughs easily?”

Danny twists to look at Derek. “I thought he was just in a bad mood because of . . .” Then he remembers that Derek’s last name is Hale, as in the Hale House Fire, and ‘Laura Hale’s Weird Murder,’ both of which are a couple of the very few events in Beacon Hills history that receive capital letters. They’re right up there with the Blizzard of ’76. “Never mind. You have a point.”

Derek’s scowl deepens.

“Don’t mind him,” Lydia says. Stiles turns slightly in his seat and blows Derek a kiss.

“Why do I put up with you?” Derek asks. “I had better be rewarded for this abuse I’m taking.”

“So this is normal?” Danny asks, to anyone who will answer. Then he looks a little embarrassed as his stomach grumbles.

“Oh, yay, it’s time to cook ALL the foods!” Stiles says, doing a little dance in the driver’s seat.

“Yes,” Lydia says, “it’s normal. Even Stiles’ little butt wiggle dance there.”

Danny watches it and laughs. “ _If_ you were my type,” he says, but he’s obviously joking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy about having to cook. Most people would just order takeout.”

“We don’t eat fast food very often,” Derek informs Danny. “It’s bad for Papa Stilinski. He’s on a heart-healthy diet.”

“Uh huh,” Danny says, trying to process the fact that Derek just called the Sheriff ‘Papa Stilinski’.

“Speaking of parents,” Stiles says, “on a more serious note. Something I wanted to run by you before you go talk to Jackson. Look, you said part of the reason – most of the reason – he’s so fucked up is because he’s got abandonment issues because his parents ditched him, right?”

Danny nods once. “Yeah. His birth parents.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a breath. “Do you know anything about . . . how much Jackson knows about those circumstances?”

“No. He asked his adoptive parents a couple of times and they just put him off. Saying he wasn’t ready, or that they would tell him when he was older. He just eventually decided that he didn’t want to know the details.” Danny gives a little shrug. “How much worse can it be that your parents didn’t frickin’ want you? At least that’s what he thinks.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles clears his throat. “Okay. I did a thing that may piss you off.”

Danny’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like this feeling of possibly being angry at his alpha. “What?”

“I looked into it. I thought . . . if Jackson knew the _reason_ why his parents gave him up, maybe it would help him be less angry about it.” Stiles lifts his hands in surrender as he pauses at a red light. “It was none of my business and I know it, but . . . sometimes not knowing is the worse thing. You know?”

“No,” Danny sighs. “I don’t. And I’m lucky for that.” He wilts in his seat. “What did you find out?”

Stiles fidgets a little. “His parents didn’t give him up at all. They died in a car accident. His mom was actually pregnant with him at the time, and he was delivered by C-section.”

“Jesus fuck.” Danny’s eyes squeezed shut. “All this time, he thought they didn’t want him.” He wants to shake Jackson’s parents, the ones who love him and have raised him, and ask him why they couldn’t have just told Jackson this in the beginning.

“My guess,” Stiles says carefully, “is that his parents thought the whole ‘birth by c-section’ thing was too gory, which is why they didn’t want to give him details. And they probably never realized the conclusions he was coming to on his own.”

“There is some validity to that, but I think that ship has sailed by now, don’t you?” Danny asks, his voice heavy on the sarcasm. “They should be the ones to tell him.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how it goes,” Stiles says. He knows that Jackson’s pride is an all-consuming entity, and that wounding it now would be a terrible idea. But he also knows that Jackson should know sooner rather than later, if they’re going to be able to help him at all. So he lets the subject drop and continues to drive back to the house, mulling it over in silence. It’s quiet there. Jackson’s circle is undisturbed, although he looks pretty pissed off to still be inside it. Stiles has to bite back an immediate comment about gratitude.

Erica and Allison are currently on Jackson-watch-duty. Erica is playing on her cell phone. Allison is sitting with her hand resting on her bow. Both of them look up when the group comes inside, and their gazes light up to see Danny back on his feet. “Don’t crowd him,” Stiles says immediately, and gives Jackson, sulking inside his circle, a significant look.

Danny smiles to see them, and part of that smile is very obviously for Jackson, despite the fact that he can’t seem to help wanting to stay physically close to the pack and his alpha. Derek moves forward with greetings as usual, both to take the edge off because he knows that Danny’s scent is all over him and to show Danny how things would normally work. He looks from Jackson to Erica. “What, you don’t make _him_ watch hours of My Little Pony? Where’s the fair in that?”

Erica opens her mouth to retort something about how Jackson is too far gone for even Twilight Sparkle’s lessons on friendship to help him. Then she darts a look at Danny and thinks better of the idea. She leans over to give him a hug, but keeps it brief and foregoes the typical cheek rub. “Whoever said life was fair?”

Danny hugs her back. He just can’t help it. “Thanks for not impinging upon his masculinity.”

Stiles clears his throat. “Let’s give him some privacy. We, uh, we kind of have to keep an eye on Jackson, but I had a thought about that . . .”

Two minutes later, Danny is sitting next to the circle containing Jackson. The only other occupants of the room are two wolves. One of them is a shaggy, dark brown; the other charcoal gray, almost black. He doesn’t know which two members of the pack are supervising this little discussion, which adds at least a little privacy to it. Derek is lying across the doorway to the kitchen; he at least is easily identifiable because they’ve all seen him as Stiles’ ‘service dog’. Jackson is just sitting with his arms folded over his chest, not looking at him.

Danny leans forward a little. “Stiles says you gave consent for me. For him to turn me. Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jackson mutters, looking at the floor. “It’s my own stupid fault you got hurt. Shit. What was I supposed to do?”

Danny practically sags with relief. “Oh, Jesus. I’ve missed you.” Because _that_ is his friend. Pissy and obnoxious, but _Jackson_. He doesn’t know if he has Jackson back all the time yet, but he’ll take this as a start.

“If you start crying, we’re done here,” Jackson tells him.

“Dude, I’m gay, not a girl. Give me some credit.”

Jackson’s jaw sets mulishly. “So all that stuff about wanting to learn the magic, that was bullshit, right? You were just keeping an eye on me for fuckin’ Stiles and his God damned pack.”

Danny shakes his head a little. “My goal was to get you back. It wasn’t for Stiles. It was for you and me. I wanted my best friend back, you asshole.” He presses his fingers into his eyes. “It wasn’t for his . . .” but that pronoun is wrong. It’s not ‘his’ pack anymore. It’s ‘our’ pack. The need to cling and be accepted is still too strong. He manages to say, “It wasn’t for the pack. And the magic would be cool as hell if it didn’t make me feel sort of slimy. If you want to try it again with someone else as a teacher, someone who doesn’t turn you into something you’re not, then hell yes, I’d give it another try.”

Jackson won’t look at him when he says any of this, particularly not the beginning parts about Danny wanting his friend back. “Yeah, well, you’re fuckin’ stupid,” he says, a little too loudly. “You shouldn’t have done any of that shit.”

The underlying message is obviously ‘I’m not worth that’. Danny has heard it, or variations of it, out of Jackson’s mouth since he was five years old. “You’re a fucking jackass, but that’s never stopped me from being your friend.” Then he asks the hard question. “Are you saying that you wouldn’t have done it for me?”

“I wouldn’t have had to,” Jackson snaps.

Danny lets out a huff. “Can we skip the pity party?”

Jackson glares at him, but then looks away. After a minute, he says, “So . . . you’re healing okay?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ll want to play lacrosse for a few days, but I basically feel fine at this point.” Danny puts a hand over his stomach. There’s still a bandage over the bite on his arm, and he knows there’s some scarring from the surgery underneath his shirt. The breaks in the skin are healing more slowly, but they _are_ healing. “Mostly just hungry.”

There’s a pause while Jackson fidgets. “Yeah, well, I’ve been stuck in this circle for an entire damned day,” he finally says.

“At least they didn’t make you watch My Little Ponies,” Danny offers, fidgeting. He knows that Derek and at least one other pack member are in the room with him. It should be enough, really. “But seriously, I can see how that would suck.” Just because Jackson’s confined because he got himself into some deep trouble without make it grate any less.

“Yeah, and Stiles says they aren’t going to let me out until they’ve taken my magic away,” Jackson says. “Just fucking figures. God forbid I have something he doesn’t.”

Danny lets out a sigh. His stomach growls and he shifts uncomfortably. It’s starting to get difficult to ignore how hungry he is. “Look, man, I know that this magic stuff was a big deal, but it was _changing_ you. Can’t you see that?”

Jackson doesn’t reply for a long minute. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I guess. So that’s it, then. I’ll go back to being some normal kid while the rest of you are all werewolves together.”

“You’re not exactly Joe Average,” Danny says. “I mean, come on, you’re captain of the lacrosse team, and you’ve got a nice car and a hot girlfriend. You were happy with all those things before Stiles had a werewolf pack, so why can’t you be happy with them now?”

“It’s not exactly the same thing,” Jackson snaps, and when Danny’s stomach growls again, he says, “Fuck this shit. Will you go eat something before you pass out?”

“Uh, yeah,” Danny says, unable to say no. “Sorry.” He scrambles to his feet and jogs into the kitchen. Stiles glances up as he comes in, and Danny has to resist the urge to snuggle. He’s not sure if that’s because of the werewolf thing or because the conversation with Jackson isn’t going so well. Then he focuses on the plate that Stiles is holding. It’s got several sandwiches on it, all cut into quarters. He can smell bacon and cheddar and toasted bread. The smell is so strong to his newly developed senses that his mouth starts to water. “Oh my _God_ , dude,” he says, scooping up one of the quarters and cramming it into his mouth without further ado.

Somewhat amused, Stiles says, “It’s the best I can do on short notice. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

Danny shakes his head, chewing. He watches as Stiles picks up a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses to go with the sandwiches, then heads back out to the living room. The wolves are still settled where he had left them. Stiles reaches out and swipes a hand over the ash circle. His hand doesn’t actually touch it, but the breeze disturbs the dust, moving it out of place. Danny can feel the sudden lack of tension in the room as Jackson reaches for one of the sandwiches.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Stiles says, putting down the lemonade.

Jackson looks a little suspicious that he’s not being sealed back in as soon as he has his food, but doesn’t actively protest. It’s obvious to everyone that he’s not going anywhere while Danny’s there. He watches the other teenager scarf down the food. “Fuck, Danny,” he mumbles underneath his breath. “What am I going to do?”

Unfortunately for Jackson, Danny hears him loud and clear. “You’re going to let them do whatever it is they need to do to make you safe,” he says. “Then you’re going to go home and hug your parents. And let them hug you. They’re _worried_ about you, idiot. And then . . . we’re just going to take it day by day. Okay?”

Jackson rubs his hands over his face. “Sure,” he says. “Just like that.”

The two of them finish eating their sandwiches in silence. Then, rather abruptly, Jackson says, “Autumn’s a bitch anyway.”

“I know,” Danny says, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, you never liked her.”

“Nope,” Danny says.

“Guess I’d better break up with her,” Jackson says.

“Try to have a little tact about it this time,” Danny recommends.

Jackson scowls, and it looks like he might have something to say about this, but then the doorbell rings. All the wolves look up, and Stiles jogs out of the kitchen. He nods to the man outside and stands back to let him in. “Dr. Deaton, thanks for coming,” he says. His voice is a little stiff, almost formal, although he’s trying to thaw out. “This is Danny, our newest pack member.”

“Nice to meet you,” Deaton says, in his usual soft-spoken way.

“And this is Jackson,” Stiles says, gesturing. “Jackson, this is Dr. Deaton. He’s the local witch doctor, and he’s going to fix you up.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Jackson growls.

Stiles is unfazed. “According to Dr. Deaton, you have two choices,” he says. “We can either strip you of your magic, or we can bind it down. Practically, the first means that you’ll never be able to do magic again. Of any kind. The second means that someday, if we decide you’re trustworthy, you may be able to get it back. We talked it over and decided that we would give you the choice.”

“Why the fuck would I choose to have it stripped, then?” Jackson asks.

“Because it’s not as easy as you think it’s going to be,” Stiles says. “Did you hear the ‘if we decide you’re trustworthy’ part? That means that you’d have to prove yourself to us. That means you’re going to have to go into therapy, talk to your parents, take lessons with Deaton, and even then all you’ll get back is the mild stuff. You’ll have to fight the impulse to do black magic for the rest of your life, kind of like a recovering heroin addict.”

Jackson hesitates. Deaton sits down next to the circle and says, “I’d like to talk with Jackson alone for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

Stiles gives him a long, considering look. Then an abrupt nod. “Okay,” he says, and heads back into the kitchen, waving for the wolves to join him. They do so rather reluctantly, especially Danny. Of course, they can still hear everything being said.

“So what are you, my sponsor?” Jackson asks, obviously indulging in a sulk.

Deaton doesn’t let it bother him; in fact, he gives a quiet little laugh. “Actually, that’s not a terrible metaphor. Because I’ve been where you are. I know that . . . losing your magic seems like the end of the world right now. But it isn’t. You are going to be okay, Jackson. What happened to you wasn’t your fault. Work with me, let me help you, and someday you’ll have your magic back. And who knows? You might actually feel better about yourself in the long run.”

Jackson makes a little noise, a hitching sound in the back of his throat. It makes the wolves shift uncomfortably, especially Danny. Stiles gives him a little push and says, quietly, “Go.” Danny doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out of the kitchen a moment later. Stiles gestures for the others to follow him out back. It’s chilly, but not terribly so. They gather in groups on the back porch.

“Okay,” Stiles finally says. “Deaton will take care of Jackson. My dad can take him home tonight. Tomorrow, we should go down to LA and get a protection charm for Danny.”

Derek clears his throat. “You have an appointment.”

Stiles looks at him blankly, then growls, “Motherfucking _therapy_ , fine, I guess it can wait until Wednesday.”

“Could you take him beforehand?” Scott asks. “Or could you go tonight?”

“We can’t go tonight,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Danny’s parents might be the supportive, accepting type, but I’m pretty sure they’ll want him home tonight, which is an entirely different can of worms. If we left at seven tomorrow morning and went to LA instead of school, we’d get back . . . threeish, but that’s contingent on good traffic, and either way I would never get to Fresno in time for my appointment.” He rubs both hands vigorously over his hair, trying to work things out.

“Well, why do you have to go?” Allison asks. “Scott and I could take him, or something.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “I want to get a charm for Jackson, too. In case Stone is pissed off that we took his favorite toy away. But in order to do _that_ , Jackson’s going to have to answer all of Rebekah’s questions, which means that someone’s going to have to break the news about his parents to him before that. That should be me if it’s anybody, since Danny doesn’t want Jackson to think he was snooping.”

There’s a pause while everyone thinks this over, and then agrees that they can’t come up with anything better. They sit on the back porch and talk about unrelated, inconsequential shit for a while. Everyone enjoys the break. Stiles knows there’s other stuff he should be doing, but he just can’t muster up the energy. His grades will just have to take the hit. He needs to work on tracking Stone down, too; he hasn’t had a chance to go through the video surveillance footage from the warehouse. But for now, he just leans on Derek’s shoulder and paints Erica’s toenails and chats with the others about what’s been on TV lately. Deaton comes out to get them about an hour later. “It’s done,” he says. “He’ll be pretty tired for a couple days, but he’ll recover.”

“Okey dokey,” Stiles says, and takes out his phone, texting his dad to let him know that Jackson is ready to go. “We can take Danny home at the same time,” he adds absently. When the pack looks at him, disconcerted, he adds, “A few of us can keep him company tonight. But if he doesn’t want to tell his parents about werewolves, and he doesn’t seem to want to, then they’re going to want him home on week nights. We can work out a better system later.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Erica agrees. They stand up and go inside. Stiles is still antsy, so he starts making more sandwiches for the pack to have for dinner while he waits for his father. They start eating them out from underneath his hands. He tries to fend them off with a mayonnaise knife, without success.

His father gets home about ten minutes later. He shakes his head at Stiles, but there’s a hint of an amused smile on his face. “Okay, let’s go,” he says, gesturing. Jackson has to be helped to his feet, but lets Danny do so without too much complaint.

Dr. Deaton is pulling on his jacket. To Stiles, he says, “I imagine that you’d like to talk to me.”

Stiles lets out a breath. He’s more concerned about Danny and Jackson right now, but what Deaton has to say to him is no less important. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you mind waiting around?”

“I have some patients to check on,” Deaton says. “Can you come by the clinic?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour or so,” Stiles says. He follows his dad out to the car. Derek goes along with him, even though there isn’t really room. He shifts into his wolf form, puts on the vest, and then sits in the front by Stiles’ feet. Sheriff Stilinski mutters something about seat belts but then lets that go. He drives to the Whittemore house and gestures for Jackson to follow him.

“You guys stay here,” he says, holding up a hand as if to say ‘I mean it’. Stiles makes a face but obeys. With the window down, he’ll be able to hear what happens unless they go inside the house. Jackson trudges up the front steps and studies his shoes, hands crammed into his pockets, as Stilinski rings the bell. Mrs. Whittemore pulls it open a few moments later and lets out a gasp that’s almost a sob, before she throws her arms around her son. He stands there awkwardly, but after a moment, hugs her back. Mr. Whittemore joins them a moment later. He looks like he didn’t sleep all night, and is happy to add his arms to the pile, wrapping them around both his wife and son.

When Mrs. Whittemore finally lets go, she’s crying. “We, we were so worried about you, you’re grounded ‘til you’re thirty – ” and while she’s saying that, Mr. Whittemore is shaking Sheriff Stilinski’s hand and thanking him about eight hundred times for tracking Jackson down.

Stilinski gives Jackson a shoulder squeeze and says, not unkindly, “You be good to your folks now,” and then the three of them withdraw into the house. Danny’s is only a few minutes away. He sits in the car rather awkwardly as it idles on the side of the road.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, seeing what he’s thinking. “Tonight, you will receive three visitors . . .”

Danny blinks at him. “Which three?”

“It’s from A Christmas Carol,” Stiles says. “It was a joke. Never mind. The point is that we’re used to hosting illicit sleepovers for pack members whose parents aren’t in the know. Go inside, enjoy an evening without sorcery and lizards and all that bullshit. You’ll see us tonight. Just point out which window is yours.”

Danny laughs and does so, and then Stiles gets out of the car and hugs him, which is weird, very weird, particularly the way Danny has the impulse to shove his nose into Stiles’ neck and just _breathe_. He does it anyway, because he really can’t help himself. Then he waves over his shoulder and goes into the house. Stiles gets into the back of the car with Derek flopped across his lap. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he says. His three-hour nap the night before just isn’t cutting it. He almost doesn’t feel up to dealing with Deaton, but he doesn’t want the veterinarian to lose his nerve, either. That’s his next stop.

The others are antsy, and they draw straws to determine who gets to spend the night at Danny’s. All of them want to spend time with their new pack member, but Stiles knows that too many people will draw attention. They’re used to doing their wolf slumber parties on the down low if they have to, and the maximum number of people who can attend is four. He knows that as alpha, it’s his responsibility to be there, so that leaves two other positions. Boyd and Lydia win the contest (although Stiles suspects that Allison may manipulate the straws so Lydia’s comes up, knowing how much she wants to go). Derek isn’t happy about not being invited, and points out that it’s not like _he_ ever adds to the noise level at one of these events. He has a point, since his MO is to sit in a corner and brood and occasionally sketch. They do a silent vote to see if anyone will be annoyed that Derek is claiming the right to stay with Stiles. Nobody votes yes, so Derek gets to go.

Stiles is longing for the day when all this bullshit is over. Derek is his lupa, an integral part of his life, but having him there every single moment of forever and always is driving him moderately mad. He’s beginning to expect to see Derek when he gets out of the shower, lurking in a corner. He needs some time to himself. If nothing else, he hasn’t had a chance to watch any porn in weeks, and as a hormonal teenager, that is obviously unacceptable. But he says nothing about this, rubbing his cheek into Derek’s collarbone in approval of his idea of accompanying him to Danny’s that night.

Scott asks to go with him to the clinic, and Stiles doesn’t see any reason why not, so naturally Allison wants to go too. Stiles doesn’t want Deaton to feel crowded, though, so he says he and Scott will talk to the veterinarian alone. Nobody has any vocal objections to that, although Derek looks grumpier after that proclamation.

The clinic is quiet; the staff have all gone home. Deaton is in the back, brushing a dog’s teeth. Scott greets the dog like an old friend and helps Deaton finish up. Stiles shifts awkwardly from foot to foot and then says, “So, this whole Jackson thing. Is it really going to work out?”

“Time will tell,” Deaton says, with his usual serene confidence.

“No offense, but I feel a little dicey on the idea of him ever getting his magic back,” Stiles says. “I mean, I don’t think ‘resisting temptation’ is something that he scores very high on. Hell, to be fair, I don’t know that I would do any better. And you’re the one who’s been talking about how hard it is.”

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Deaton says. “Frankly, the odds of him ever getting it back are slim. But if he wants to work towards it, that’s his choice.”

Stiles shakes his head a little and says, “If you say so. But you run it by me first, before you decide to give it back to him, when you think he’s ready. I don’t care if I’m forty years old and living on Mars. You run it by me.”

“Understood,” Deaton says, with a solemn nod. Then he heads down into his underground workshop. He comes up a few minutes later with a nondescript wooden box, which he opens to reveal a single bullet. It’s obviously been fired, being somewhat crumpled. He holds it up and says, “This is it.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Stiles admits, hauling himself up to sit on the edge of Deaton’s desk. “How do you have that? _Why_ do you have that?”

Deaton sits down behind his desk. “When Sebastian and I left the foster home together, there were several . . . goals . . . that we had in mind. This was one of them. Sebastian wanted it. You see, it had been kept in storage as evidence. Since his father had survived the murder of his family, there was the possibility that he would go on trial someday. So all the evidence was carefully documented and kept. Sebastian and I broke into the police station and retrieved this. Or, more accurately, I did. Sebastian wouldn’t fit through the vent. So he entrusted the task to me, while he . . . went to make sure that his father would never go to trial.”

“Why did he want it?” Scott asks.

“Because it has profound magical value,” Deaton says. “Sebastian truly has nothing. As a foster child, even the clothes on his back didn’t really belong to him. There was never anything of physical value for him to get attached to. But this,” he says, holding up the bullet, “this made him what he was. This tiny piece of metal changed his entire life in the blink of an eye. To Sebastian, this is the most meaningful physical object in the world. This bullet represents everything he became.”

Stiles nods along. “He wanted it . . . to trade?”

“Yes,” Deaton says. “Sebastian knew a day would come when he would have unlocked all the power inside himself, and he knew that he would still thirst for power. This is the only possible thing of value he has if he decided to enter into a pact with a greater force.”

“But somehow you wound up with it,” Scott says, his brow furrowing. “Did he let you keep it?”

“No,” Deaton says. “I never gave it to him. I . . . at the last minute, I couldn’t. I took two bullets from the evidence locker and gave him the one that had killed his mother instead.”

“So even back then, you didn’t trust him,” Stiles says. “You wanted to have insurance in case he ever got out of hand.”

“No, no,” Deaton says. “That wasn’t it at all. I didn’t give him the bullet because I was afraid _for_ him, not because I was afraid _of_ him. Because I knew that someday he would try to use it, and . . .”

“And lose himself completely,” Scott says, nodding. “You were protecting him.”

Deaton nods. “And the fact that Stone now _realizes_ what I did means that he did, indeed, try to make that deal.”

“Damn,” Stiles says. “He tried to do it before coming here to play with me. I don’t know if I should be flattered or pissing my pants. Or both. I think I’ll go with both . . .”

Despite the seriousness of their situation, Deaton smiles a little. “I had hoped I would be able to keep it the rest of my life without him ever realizing I had it. When Derek first got sick, I felt . . . this sinking sensation that he had finally caught up with me. I tried to convince myself it was probably something or someone else. Then I saw the voodoo doll. The dark energy in that spell. It felt like his, but . . . so different, so much more _malicious_ than he had been. So I still tried to think it wasn’t him. But then when I saw the e-mails, I knew. And I knew why he was here.”

“So . . . what are we going to do with it?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know,” Deaton says, and then he holds it out to Stiles. Stiles just looks at it. “Take it. I think you should have it.”

A little nervously, Stiles reaches out and lets Deaton drop it into the palm of his hand. It feels strangely heavy. “What do you want me to do?”

“That’s up to you,” Deaton says. “Do nothing. Give it to him. Destroy it. Use it to destroy him. I don’t want to know what your plan is for it, and I won’t hold it against you, no matter what you do.” He reaches out and folds Stiles’ fingers over the bullet. “It’s yours now.”

Stiles clenches his fist, then pulls it back and tucks the bullet into his pocket. “Thanks,” he says. “But . . . why? I mean, you have to know that whatever I decide to do with it, it won’t end well for Stone.”

Deaton gives a little shrug. “I should have given it to you the minute he walked into town. I’ve . . . always known what he was, and what he would eventually become. But I can’t stop him, Stiles. I don’t know why I can’t, but I can’t. Too much of what I am is wrapped up in this. All I can do is . . . not interfere.” He stands up and gestures to the door. “I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure.”

It’s clearly a dismissal, so Stiles nods and thanks him. Scott thanks him, too, and the two of them leave the office. They meet up with the others and go back to the car, and Stiles sits in the passenger seat in silence, turning the bullet around and around in his fingers.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seemed to like the stuff with Gwen, so I let her have another chapter. ^_^

 

Stiles finds Gwen waiting in the courtyard with two bottles of water, a deck of cards, and a box of tissues surreptitiously tucked underneath one of the benches in case it becomes necessary. He dumps his bag down on the bench across from her, and Derek settles down next to it, resting his head on his paws. His greeting is just as brisk as it was the first time. “Hi. Nice to see you, how quick can we fix me, because I have a major time crunch this week.”

Gwen arches her eyebrows a little and says, “Well, I guess my first question would be, now that you’re here, would it actually help to leave right this minute? I know you live a ways away.”

Stiles scowls at her involuntarily, and snaps, “No. I _should_ be in Los Angeles, buying a protection charm for my newest pack member, but instead I’m here. And it’s too late to go to LA today, so I’m going to have to skip school and go tomorrow.”

She doesn’t take offense at his tone. She’s pretty sure that every session with Stiles is going to have him dishing out some anger in her direction. She’s a guilt free target. But she is surprised by his mention of a new pack member. “Okay,” she says, taking the cards out of the box and dealing a game of gin rummy. “Tell me what’s been happening.”

“Bullet points?” Stiles swipes up his hand of cards but continues to pace. He does take a quick glance around the courtyard and lower his voice a little before speaking again. “I had a little chat with our sorcerous pal, actually made some progress, was starting to feel like everything wouldn’t be a complete disaster before his apprentice, who’s a schoolmate of mine acting out a load of world-class resentment, attachment issues, and an abandonment complex, summoned up a gigantic lizard monster to try to eat me, his friend and our undercover sorcery agent had his head split open by aforementioned murder lizard, and we had to turn him into a werewolf to keep him from kicking the bucket. Nobody went home happy. So now I need to bring him to LA to get a protection charm and go clear everything through the local hunters before they freak out that we turned someone without consent. Oh, and Harris has started fucking following me around again.”

“How’s your new wolf doing?” Gwen asks, deciding to tackle things one at a time.

Stiles rubs a hand over his hair. “Could be worse. Physically, he’s fully recovered now. He’s . . . handling it pretty well. At least he’s not pissed at me.”

“That’s good.” Gwen adjusts her cards. “How are the local hunters going to take it? And what exactly are their feelings on the sorcerers?”

“Eh, with Chris Argent, it could go one way or another,” Stiles says, drawing a card and trying to focus. “He likes me, so I think I can get it by him without him killing me, though it may mean an end to our truce, which would suck. He hates the sorcerers, though, ‘cause they’re causing trouble. Anyway, that’s totally not the point.” He slaps a card down onto the discard pile.

“What is the point?” Gwen hovers over the discard pile for a moment before going for the draw pile. She suspects that she knows what the point is, that he doesn’t have time for _this_ , for _himself_ , but she wants to hear him say it.

“The point!” Stiles exclaims, “is that I have one kajillion things I _should_ be doing right now, and yet I’m here, because fucking _Harris_ and fucking _lawsuits_ and fucking _Peter fucking Hale_.”

“You started coming here because of Harris and the lawsuit,” Gwen says. “You need to be here for multiple reasons. But you know that, and you don’t need me to convince you, or you would have cancelled today’s appointment.” His ‘points’ were actually much better than she would have anticipated. “So let’s start with two things that are most likely low on your list of priorities but are two things I think I actually can fix for you. Okay?”

“Okay. Sure.” Stiles snatches up another card and continues to pace in tight little circles. “Hit me.”

“One: at the end of the session I’ll give you my e-mail address, and in the face of your very real time constraints, for the next week or two we can e-mail back and forth instead of having face-to-face sessions. That way you can write things out at a time that’s convenient and workable for you, whether it’s between classes or at two AM. Once things settle down, I’ll expect to see you back here, though.”

Stiles pushes his hand through his hair, leaving the spikes lopsided. “To be fair, I did call and ask your secretary if we could push this to tomorrow so I could go to LA today, but she said you didn’t have anything available.”

Gwen nods. “Very likely true. Next time you can go ahead and tell her that you’re having an emergency with your pack that you need to attend to. She may ask some questions, because a patient’s idea of an emergency and ours don’t always coincide, but she’s a pretty good judge and something can usually be worked out. Like, say, e-mailing back and forth. I’m glad you didn’t just cancel.”

“I’m not giving details on pack emergencies to anyone who is not you,” Stiles says, “but if I have one, I guess I can e-mail you about it.”

“That’s fine,” Gwen says. Normally, she might label such behavior as paranoia, but it isn’t paranoia if everyone really is out to get him.

“What’s number two?” Stiles asks.

“Harris.” Gwen is clearly not thrilled with the man’s behavior. “He can’t just start following you around again. It’s harassment, and unacceptable. Have you told your father?”

Derek’s head and ears come up at this abrupt subject change. Stiles squirms a little and says, “No. I don’t want to cause trouble for him while the lawsuit is going on. I figured I would just ignore him.”

“My advice is don’t,” Gwen says. “For one thing, it’s detrimental to your mental health. For another thing, it’s telling him that he can get away with it, and like any bully, he may escalate and begin talking to you and making threats again. Now, I grant that having your father handle it would be awkward, but isn’t there anyone else at the station you trust? Someone that you could explain things to? Maybe the officer that did the initial investigation of Harris’ claim?”

“They’re all named in the damned suit,” Stiles says glumly. “The entire damned police department. I guess I could talk to the principal. But he’s kind of useless.”

“All of them?” Gwen asks, genuinely shocked. “I hope nobody ever breaks into his house.”

At this, Stiles does smile a little. “Yeah, well, he just filed the suit against the police department in general.” He shakes his head a little. “The preliminary hearing is tomorrow, where they’ll hear Kolenberg’s motion to dismiss, so of course _that’s_ keeping me up at night.”

“Are you going to the hearing?” Gwen asks.

“Well, I _wanted_ to go,” Stiles says, “but now I have to go to fucking Los Angeles instead.”

“Would you like me to go for you?”

“I thought your schedule was full,” Stiles says, and lays down his cards. “Hah! Read ‘em and weep.”

Gwen makes a face and tosses her cards on the table, then scoops them all up and starts to shuffle. “As it happens, the reason I don’t have any availability tomorrow is because Wednesdays are my house-call days. There are a number of group homes and youth facilities that I visit throughout the city. So I can make time to go to the hearing if it would help.”

Stiles sighs and finally plunks down on the bench, letting some of the tension leave him. “I don’t know. Dad says it’s just a formality. That it won’t be dismissed because it’s too complex and has too many factors. That we don’t _want_ it dismissed, because then all people will remember is that Harris filed the lawsuit rather than all the facts that will come out if it actually goes to a trial. And I know that’s important, that his career is important and that he’s right, but at the same time, I just . . .” He lays one arm down on the table and rests his forehead on it.

“You just want it to go away?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Gwen tells him, as Derek edges underneath the table until he’s pressed against Stiles’ legs. “Given all the balls you’re juggling and have in the air, wanting this to just go away seems perfectly reasonable to me. But I think it should go to trial. Not for your father’s political career, although I would hate to see him lose his job, and not for the sake of the truth coming out, although I think people should know what sort of person Harris is. In the end, I’m more goal-oriented than that, and maybe it would help if you thought about this in the same way. This needs to be dragged into the public eye because if this plan doesn’t work, he’ll just come at you again, from a different angle. He’ll come at you until he either wins or is totally shot down.”

“Don’t mention shooting the motherfucker,” Stiles grumbles into the table. “Normally, I would _relish_ the idea of taking that asshole to court and crucifying him there. I don’t . . . I don’t know why it’s different this time.”

“Maybe because you’re overwhelmed with other things?” Gwen suggests. “Or maybe because you don’t want any of your own issues to be laid out there for people to see. Kolenberg will ask for a closed courtroom, by the way. Or maybe it’s because one of the things on the table is ‘Jack’s’ safety. And even though you know that no one can really hurt Derek, it still feels like your lupa’s safety on the line.”

Stiles stares down at his cards, tapping them against the table. “No,” he finally says. “It’s because . . . this is the first time it feels like my fault. Everything that happened last winter . . . that was all Peter. We were just innocent victims. And then Gerard Argent. He went after my family, my pack, so I was happy to fight him. This . . . it feels like I’m fighting myself. That it’s my own weakness on trial.” He glances up, then quickly back down. “Does that make sense?”

“Like maybe if you weren’t having these issues, if you hadn’t given Harris the opening, none of this would be happening?” Gwen asks, trying to clarify without making things too emotional.

“Yes.” Stiles slaps his palm down on the table. “That’s exactly it.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Gwen says. “But maybe he would have just found something else. He apparently thinks he has quite an axe to grind. And this may be a weakness, but you aren’t weak, so you shouldn’t let this color your overall perception of yourself.”

Stiles balances one of his cards on its corner, slowly rotating it. “Maybe that’s it, too. Other guys who’ve come in and out of my life and fucked with me . . . I _get_ it. Peter was crazy and wanted revenge for his family. Gerard hated werewolves. Kali was a psycho who resented me for taking Laura’s place as the alpha of the Hale territory. All these people . . . I understood their motives, so I could anticipate, I could work against them. I just don’t _get_ Harris. I can’t get inside his head.”

“That certainly isn’t any flaw in you,” Gwen says. “As a person whose job it is to understand people, there’s always going to be someone who just baffles you. Sure, maybe if you had more time, more information, more . . . anything, but he isn’t your life’s work. He’s just something that you have to survive.”

“It just . . . grinds on,” Stiles says with a sigh. “When stuff is life or death, it goes by _fast_. Harris is like . . . an anchor tied to my shoe.”

“Why does it feel different to you?” Gwen asks, absently shuffling the deck.

“Because there’s nothing I can _do_ ,” Stiles says, frustration starting to boil over in his voice. “Besides come see you because Kolenberg thinks I should, whatever. I’m not a lawyer, I can’t file motions or research briefs or . . . I probably won’t even have to testify, Kolenberg says, because I’m a minor and the main issue is about the way the police treated Harris’ complaint, which I wasn’t involved in, so I have nothing to prepare for. All I can do is sit and _watch_ things happen, and when I say things like ‘do you want me to write up some stuff on wolf genotyping because I know all about it’, my dad is just like, ‘it’s okay, Stiles, you have enough to worry about’ like saying that will make me _not_ worry about this.”

Genuinely curious, Gwen says, “Why would wolf genotyping come up? I thought Harris was complaining that Jack was aggressive, not arguing over his species.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles throws his hands in the air, a bit of his old fashioned melodrama kicking in. “He says that Jack is obviously a wolf hybrid and therefore can’t be a service dog because wolf hybrids are illegal in California without a permit.”

Gwen smirks a little. “I suppose saying that he isn’t a hybrid at all wouldn’t help.” She leans down to look at Derek. “In addition to being an insult to your ancestry,” she adds. He raises his eyebrows as if to agree, then heaves a sigh. “So you wrote a paper about how he’s full of it?”

“Well, I asked my dad if he wanted me to write a paper because I know a lot about it, and he said no, but then I wrote it anyway because I was up all night at the hospital with Danny – the new pack member – and I needed _something_ to do but I hadn’t thought to bring my homework, so, yeah, I wrote it. So then I told my dad and he’s just like, ‘Stiles, I told you, we don’t need that, we have all the information we need’.”

“Do you have it all with you?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s on my laptop.” Stiles pats his bag. “But why do you care?”

“Because it never hurts to be more educated than I already am,” she says. “Also, I’d feel really stupid if it turned out to be useful at the hearing tomorrow and I didn’t have it.”

“The hearing is just a bullshit formality, remember?” Stiles says, but pulls his laptop out and flips it open regardless. He gets Gwen’s e-mail address, saving it into his phone as well as his computer, and sends it over. It’s a good report, too, one that he’s proud of, with citations and fancy headings and everything. The hospital is very good for his productivity when it comes to research.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with Murphy’s Law?” Gwen asks.

“And all its corollaries,” Stiles says with a sigh.

Gwen deals each of them a hand of cards. “Ah, yes. Incidental magic. Some of the first we truly learn.”

“I’ve had e-fucking-enough of magic,” Stiles says fervently. “I wish I’d never heard of it.”

“Fair enough,” Gwen says. “What would you like to talk about?”

Stiles is quiet through several turns of the game, while they draw and discard and study their cards. “I’m tired,” he finally says. “I have a lot of trouble sleeping.”

“Trouble how?” Gwen asks, glancing up from her cards only occasionally. It’s obvious that Stiles doesn’t really like being watched, and especially doesn’t appreciate direct eye contact.

“Yes,” Stiles says. He rubs a hand over his face. “Trouble falling asleep. Waking up early. Having nightmares. Having trouble falling back to sleep _after_ the nightmares. I can’t sleep alone, I can’t sleep if it’s too quiet, I can’t sleep if it’s too dark . . .”

“Okay,” Gwen says, taking a moment to mull this over. “The last three actually seem like pretty reasonable behavior to me.”

“Yeah, well, having a werewolf pack means you never have to sleep alone anyway,” Stiles admits, “and fortunately I’m lucky enough that none of them bitch about the fan and the night light. I’ve tried Ambien but I feel like crap in the morning. It wasn’t such a big deal over the summer, when I could just nap whenever, but I’m so busy these days . . .”

“Well, I meant that they’re reasonable behaviors given what you’ve been through. Another person, some light, noise, all of those are gut-level, instinctual reminds that you aren’t in a car trunk. Those are reminders you would need, especially if you’re having flashbacks.” Gwen sees his shoulders tightening and continues, “Since they’re things you can easily provide for yourself and they don’t bother anyone else, I don’t see a problem with them. And countless people need white noise to sleep. They actually make white noise machines, you know.” She taps her cards against the table. “Did Ambien ever work in the past?”

“Nope,” Stiles says. “I hated it right from the very beginning. I have better luck with melatonin. It helps me fall asleep. But it doesn’t fix the ‘waking up early’ or the nightmare problems.”

“Does napping help you feel rested?” Gwen asks, taking a sip from her water bottle.

“Sometimes yeah, sometimes no,” Stiles says. “When I’m really sleep-deprived, I drop right into REM, which can . . . be ugly.”

“REM rebound wouldn’t be for the faint of heart near you, would it,” Gwen says. “I can see how that would be a problem if you were at school.” She turns her water bottle around in her hands. “The unfortunate truth is that I think the nightmares are a symptom of your PTSD that are going to stick around until you’re in a position where you can really work through it. I don’t like having to say that, but there isn’t an easy solution. What I would recommend for now is that you try to help what you can. Sleep with the night light and some white noise if that helps hold off the panic reactions. Nap if you can, if you have time, and once in a while, Ambien may be better than wholesale exhaustion. If you’d like to try a different sleep aid to see if it agrees with you better, we can do that.”

“Yeah.” Stiles studies his cards for a minute. “The thing is, when I had the . . . the flashback last week . . . when I was actually _seeing_ things, not just hearing them . . . I’m pretty sure that was because I hadn’t really slept for a few days. So. A sleep aid might be, you know, good.”

“Okay. I’ll write you a prescription for something before you leave. If it works better than the Ambien, you can let me know.” As much as she may like Stiles, she’s not going to write him a full month’s worth on faith, particularly not after he got so testy when she asked about his Adderall dose.

Stiles nods a little. He plays in silence for almost a full minute, searching for the words that might describe what he means. “I’m . . . afraid I’ll get addicted to it,” he finally says.

Gwen considers this, going over a couple ideas in her head and taking her turn in the game before speaking. “The fact that you’re worried about it lowers your chances, because you’re already guarding against it. Do you have a solid reason to think you would? And by ‘solid reason’, I mean, do you have a history of addiction, or a family history?”

“No. I’ve just read about it online a lot.” Stiles puts down a card. “Sometimes I really shouldn’t be allowed to do research. I turn into one of those internet moms. You know. You get a headache, so you go to Web MD and then you’re like ‘holy shit, I have _all_ the diseases!’”

Gwen can’t help but laugh at that. “You’re a bit better than that; you’re not convinced that you know better than the professionals. Here’s my advice if you’re worried about it. We can negotiate a number of pills you’re allowed per month, and I can give you a prescription without refills. Then you’d have to think about how badly you want one. Or you can give the bottle to someone else, like Derek or your father, and ask them for a pill when you think you need it. You know they won’t make you feel bad about taking the medication, but having to ask or ration it will make you self-aware. You’ll really think about it, so it won’t become habit to pop a pill and go to bed.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a sigh. “I guess a few times a week won’t kill me.”

Gwen discards and considers how resigned Stiles seems. “It’s good that you asked about this, you know. About getting help for the trouble sleeping. You should be proud of yourself for willing to talk to me about that. There’s nothing wrong with medication being one of the things we use to help. Medication only becomes a problem when you expect it to become some magical cure-all, and that’s obviously not what you’re expecting out of it.”

“I guess that’s true.” Stiles does perk up a little bit at that. “Better living through chemistry and all. It’s too bad they haven’t invented a pill that would just let me forget all that crap that gives me nightmares in the first place.”

“In all seriousness, would you want that, if you could have it?” Gwen asks, genuinely curious.

“Oh my _God_ yes,” Stiles says. “I’m not saying I would give up the pack or even that I would want to forget everything, but if I could forget those two days in the car I would be on that like a hobo on a hot dog. But, you know, it’s funny . . .” He studies his cards and lowers his voice. “It’s . . . that’s not what I dream about the most. What bothers me the most. It _does_ bother me, but it’s a simple fear, a fear I can deal with. Like a fear of the dark. It’s . . . killing Peter . . . that’s what I wish most I could forget. If I had to do it all over, I would do it again. In a heartbeat. It’s what I had to do for _so_ many reasons. But when I’m by myself, that’s what I think about.”

Gwen picks up the deck and begins to shuffle. “Do you want to talk about that?” she asks gently. She wants to know what, specifically, about it bothers him. Obviously, killing someone would take a toll on anyone. It’s difficult for soldiers and police the first time, and Stiles had had no training that might have helped soften the blow. But she suspects that there’s something else, something deeper. She notices that Derek is sitting very still, not wanting to upset Stiles further or make Stiles pull himself together in order to comfort him.

Stiles swallows convulsively and hunches his shoulders together. He struggles to articulate for a minute. “I . . . I _had_ to,” he says. “I didn’t have a choice. Maybe that . . . that’s what’s worst about it. Not that I killed him, but that it was all I could do. I’m used to, to working my way through options and picking the best one. But when it was Peter . . . he _needed_ to die, but I’m not one hundred percent sure he _deserved_ to die.”

Gwen gently sets down a hand of cards near him for Stiles to pick up or not, if he wants to. She sets her own down on the table as well, waiting to see what he does. If he wants the distraction, she’ll play, but if not then she’ll leave the air clear. “Maybe he didn’t. I’ll confess to not knowing much beyond the bare bones of the whole tragic mess, but maybe he didn’t deserve to die. But that’s not _your_ fault. If you worked through the options and that’s all you were left with, it’s not your fault you were in that position. Maybe it’s not Peter’s fault, either. The guilt falls on the people who forced both of you into that position.”

“Yeah, well, they’re dead,” Stiles says with a sigh, “so there ain’t much I can do about that. Maybe that should help me sleep at night, but it doesn’t.”

“The head and the heart sometimes don’t communicate very well,” Gwen says. “You know it’s not your fault. You just have to keep telling yourself that until you feel it. Which I’m aware sounds easier than it is.” She watches him fidget for a minute. “Why don’t you try it?”

Stiles blinks at her. “Try . . . what?”

“Say it out loud. That Peter’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“I _killed_ him, remember?”

“Yes, I remember that.”

Stiles swallows. His fists clench down convulsively on the cards. “It . . .” He has to stop and swallow again. “Peter’s death wasn’t . . .” His voice falters. He has to start over. “Peter’s death wasn’t my fault.” The words are shaky, and he obviously doesn’t believe them for a moment, but he manages to squeeze them out.

Gwen nods approvingly. “Good. Great,” she says, her voice one hundred percent sincere. Given how hard it was for Stiles to get the words out, being able to say them was clearly a big step. “So you have homework. I want you to say that out loud twice a day. It doesn’t have to be where anyone can hear you, but it does have to be out loud. Starting Sunday, I want one of those times each day to be to your own reflection. Next week we’ll work on you being able to look yourself in the eye while you say it.”

This goal sounds impossibly far away to Stiles, but then again he doesn’t have to _believe_ it, just say it, so he nods. “I . . . I’m going to cry now,” he says, hastily rubbing the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his eyes, choking the words out. “Don’t look, okay?”

“Okay.” Gwen gathers up the cards to deal out a game of Solitaire for herself, not wanting to inhibit him in any way. Stiles just slides off the bench and wraps his arms around Derek, hugging the wolf close to himself and hiding his tears in Derek’s fur, letting out hitching little sobs. Derek snuggles closer, hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder, hugging back as best he can. There are a lot of things he can’t fix for Stiles of late, but this he can do. As absurdly simple as it this is, it also seems to be vitally important, like this had all just been dragging Stiles down like a lodestone. Crying and getting some of it off his chest might finally allow him to breathe again.

Gwen keeps a surreptitious eye on them, but mostly she keeps her eye on her game and doesn’t look, like Stiles had asked. A few minutes later, Stiles’ tears trail off. He reaches for the box of tissues and eels back up into his seat, wiping his eyes and taking a few sips of the water. “So, do you, uh, do you wanna hear about wolf genotyping and stuff? I can give you the overview. You know. For the hearing.”

They’ve clearly reached the ‘stress free’ part of the session. Which is fine. They’ve made an amazing amount of progress. So she smiles at Stiles and says, “Absolutely.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, final chapter count, go!
> 
> I need to write an entire story about Chris and Stiles giving each other a hard time. I just love putting the two of them in the same room.

 

It’s late on Tuesday night, about eight o’clock, and Stiles shifts awkwardly from foot to foot while he waits for someone to answer the door at the Argent house. He’s still not at all sure about this. He knows it’s what he _should_ be doing, what he _has_ to do. There’s a part of him that wants to do it, but another large part of him that doesn’t. But the door opens and the moment of truth arrives. Chris gives Stiles one of those unfathomable looks, then stands back to let him in. Rather than leaving him in the front hallway, he actually motions for Stiles to follow him into the kitchen. “What is it?” he asks, pulling a beer out of the fridge.

Stiles takes a breath to steady himself and then, carefully keeping his voice even, he says, “I wanted to let you know that we have a new pack member.”

That surprises Chris. He just blinks at Stiles as he twists the top off his beer. “I see,” he finally says.

“Danny Mahealani,” Stiles continues, before Chris can ask. He takes another deep breath, and then plunges in. “It’s important for you to know what happened. He was helping us with the sorcerer. He had gone undercover as an apprentice, since Jackson is his friend. Unfortunately, he was badly injured when Jackson summoned up that damned lizard monster. We . . . didn’t think he would live. So we turned him.” He meets Chris’ gaze, unflinching. “We did it without his consent. We didn’t have a lot of better options, but . . . I know that we aren’t supposed to do that, that we’re _never_ supposed to turn someone with consent, and I wanted you to hear that we did it directly from me. Rather than from someone else. And I’ll accept whatever consequences that means for our truce.”

Chris takes a long, slow drink of his beer while he considers all this. Then he nods. “Thank you,” he says. “For bringing it to me directly. I appreciate that. But I’ve told you before. We go after people who ruin lives. Not people who save them.”

The words are like a punch in Stiles’ gut, and he lets out a little, choked noise of relief that sounds suspiciously like a sob. Because he respects Chris. Not only that, but he realizes that out of all the people in Beacon Hills, Chris is the one who sets his moral compass. Stiles can’t use his father; he’s too good, has too much respect for the law. But he can’t risk letting himself slip too far off the mark, either. Chris goes after monsters, and so does Stiles. They’re actually a lot alike in many ways.

Chris gives him a minute to steady himself before saying, “Is he going to be all right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “He . . . he wasn’t upset about it or anything. He’s taking to it pretty well, all things considered.”

“Okay then,” Chris says. “Keep him in line, the way you keep all your pack members in line, and we won’t have a problem.”

Stiles nods. Then he says, “I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a little memory card, handing it over.

Chris takes it, and then his eyes widen momentarily. “Is this – ”

“The video,” Stiles says. “Yeah. It’s the only copy. You have my word.”

“Why are you giving this to me?” Chris asks.

Stiles manages a wan smile. “A couple reasons. Primarily because I think we’re beyond that now, aren’t we? Because I want to have an alliance, not a truce. And that will never happen if I’m holding that over your head. Partly just to show that I respect you too much to do that to you. But also because . . . it was never about the video, was it? Oh, maybe a little bit in the beginning. But not much. This was never keeping you in check. That’s not the sort of person you are. If I had ever really stepped on your toes, if you’d ever _really_ had reason to go after me and my pack, you would have done what you thought was right and damn the consequences. The video, the blackmail, it wouldn’t have stopped you. So there’s really no point in me holding onto it, is there.”

After a moment, Chris shoves the little memory chip into his pocket. “Sometimes I think you and I understand each other,” he says.

“And then I say something obnoxious?” Stiles asks.

Chris actually smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty much. How are things going with this sorcerer?”

“Not too bad at the moment,” Stiles says. “Jackson’s guilt over nearly getting Danny killed has gotten him free from Stone’s evil clutches, and he let us bind his magic down. Plus I got proof that he tampered with my car’s brakes and now his parents are involved and getting him into therapy so he can work through all this massive, unfounded resentment he has for the world.” He shoves his hands down into his pockets. “So, one down, one to go.”

“What do you think Stone’s next move is going to be?”

“I’m not sure. With this guy, it could be anything. I’m working on trying to find where he’s been hiding. I’m so fucking sick of being on the defensive. I need to finish this.”

“What’ve you got on him?”

“Fucking _nothing_ ,” Stiles says. He pushes both hands through his hair. “No credit cards, no license plates, no phone to trace, nothing. He’s like a God damned ghost.”

Chris considers this for a moment. “He has to be getting supplies from somewhere.”

“Yeah, but he showed up with enough cash that I think there’s nothing to trace. I doubt he’s buying them at October Moon.” Stiles sighs. “I guess I can ask. But I’m still working on it.”

Chris takes another pull at his beer. “You’ll let me know when you find him?”

Stiles considers for a minute, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

They say goodbye and Stiles goes back out to the car, where Derek is sulking at having been left behind. Stiles assured him that it went as well as could reasonably be expected, and heads back to the house. They’ve changed shifts on ‘who gets to stay with Danny’, so Scott and Allison are going to stay the night at his place. Erica and Lydia are at Erica’s house, and Boyd and Isaac are at Boyd’s.

Stiles is torn between the urge to do his homework and the need to go through the surveillance footage. When Derek notices the way he’s twitching, he says, “You know, I am capable of going through the recorded footage. You don’t need to do _everything_ yourself.”

Stiles rubs his hands over his face and fights against the fact that he won’t be satisfied unless he’s watched it himself. “You’re not trained for what to look for . . .”

“Neither are you,” Derek points out.

“Why don’t I watch them?” Sheriff Stilinski says, from where he’s working his way through the pile of vegetables that Stiles is forcing him to eat before any other meal options will come into play. “Hell, Derek and I can go through them together. Two sets of eyes are better than one – and face it, kid, you’re probably not in the best frame of mind for this.”

Stiles has to admit that he can barely keep his eyes open. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll leave it to you two, then. Specifically, I’m trying to find out how he got there. I’m hoping I got a shot of him getting in or out of a car, so I can maybe track down the car’s information.”

Stilinski nods. “We’re on it,” he says.

So for the first time in a week, Stiles sits down with his homework. He has a physics test to study for and an English paper to write. He’s three assignments behind in pre-calc, although the teacher gave him an extension after she found out he had been with Danny in the hospital. Erica’s done his Spanish homework for him, but he has to copy it down in his own handwriting, and it would help if he at least read it over if he wants to pass the Thursday’s quiz. He has history reading to do, but that’s a low priority; he knows all about the Korean War without having to look through a textbook.

He sets all of these things down on his desk and hops from assignment to assignment, because that’s how he focuses best. Ten minutes on Ohm’s Law, fifteen sketching out an outline of his paper on William Faulkner, four trigonometry problems, a list of Spanish vocabulary, and then back to the beginning. He falls asleep at his desk around eleven.

Some time later, he jerks awake at a quiet noise in his room and a hand on his shoulder. He lurches upwards and nearly clocks Derek across the face. The older man catches his wrist, gently, and holds onto it as Stiles blinks himself awake. “Sorry,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing his free hand over his face.

“My fault,” Derek says. “I should’ve known better than to sneak up on you. I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Time’s it?”

“About one. I thought I’d get you into bed.”

Stiles lets out a gigantic yawn. “No problem,” he says, shoving what’s left of his school work aside. He’s suddenly remembering that he’s not going to be in school the next day anyway. He has to take Jackson and Danny to Los Angeles. Maybe he’ll have Derek drive part way so he can finish some of this stuff up. “Any luck on the videos?”

“No. Well, sort of,” Derek amends. “No car. We think he walked there. We did catch a couple glimpses of him. Your dad is going to call around and get some of the exterior security cam footage from the businesses and such around there. We got some of it tonight – that’s why we were up so late. We’ll see if we can figure out where he was coming from and track him back. It’ll take some time.”

“Okay.” Stiles allows Derek to pull him to his feet and across the room, where he falls into bed and is asleep again almost immediately. He’s awake on and off through the night – two different nightmares, but he manages to fall back to sleep each time after numbing his brain copying down Erica’s Spanish homework.

He’s up at the usual time the next morning and tired, but functional, and starts making plans for the day. Jackson is still grounded and his parents aren’t even allowing him to go to school, they’re so intent on keeping an eye on him. Stiles has to get his father’s help freeing Jackson from their concerned clutches to take him to Los Angeles. Sheriff Stilinski picks him up at seven thirty, telling his parents that he’s going to let him shadow a couple people at the station so he can ‘see how real-life consequences work’. The Whittemores agree readily, both because it sounds like a good idea and because they’d be willing to give Sheriff Stilinski just about anything he asked for at this point.

Stiles has to promise about eight hundred times that he will not let Jackson out of his sight for as much as a millisecond. This really isn’t a problem for him, since he has no desire to in any case. They pick up Danny from his house and head south out of town. Stiles shuffles through the CDs he’s stored in his stupid rented Honda, looking for something good to put on. He’s not picky when it comes to music, and Derek is a fan of classic rock, so he puts in the Rolling Stones.

“There’s no fuckin’ leg room back here,” Jackson gripes from the back seat.

Stiles slowly turns to stare at him as he pulls up to a stop sign and says, “Are you fucking kidding me? You do _remember_ why my Jeep is in the shop, right?”

Jackson’s jaw sets in a mulish expression. When no apology is forthcoming, Danny punches him in the shoulder, so Jackson mutters, “Yeah, okay, whatever. Where are we going, anyway?”

“Los Angeles,” Stiles says. “There’s a woman there who makes protection charms.” He sees Jackson’s lip curl in disdain and says, “Yes, before you ask, that _is_ how we were able to stay safe from all the _other_ spells you were casting on us. Don’t look at me like that; did you think I didn’t know? Anyway, the spells require a drop of blood and the answers to some personal questions, so you get to come with us so they can be personalized.”

“That explains why Danny’s here,” Jackson says, “but why are you dragging _me_ with you?”

“Because we’re getting one for you, too, numbnuts,” Stiles says, trying to keep the exasperated impatience out of his voice. “In case Stone decides to get back at you for quitting black magic academy.”

There’s a long pause. Then Jackson says, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Oh. Really? That’s all you have to say to that? ‘Oh’? Can I get a ‘thanks’ or an ‘I appreciate that’ or maybe a ‘sorry for all the trouble’, or anything more than a syllable?”

Jackson flips him off.

Stiles has to take a deep breath. Then Mick Jagger obligingly launches into ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ and he winds up laughing, near hysterically. “My fuckin’ life, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, shaking his head. Derek is giving that little half-smile, and Danny is laughing, too. This only seems to cement Jackson’s propensity to sulk, but Stiles is beyond caring. They’ll protect Jackson for Danny’s sake, and because it’s the right thing to do, and fuck whatever Jackson thinks of it anyway. He increases their speed as they get on the highway. It’s not a bad little car, the Civic. At least it gets good gas mileage. “Glad we had this little chat,” he adds, and to be honest, he _is_ kind of glad. Because if Jackson had suddenly started being nice to him and acting like something other than a complete self-entitled jerk, he would have known it was a lie, designed to lull him into false complacency. That would have only put him more on edge. He can handle typical, bitchy Jackson.

“Anyway,” he says, “on the same subject, Rebekah’s going to ask some questions about your life, and require truthful answers. If you lie, the spell won’t work as well. Actually, my guess is that if you lie, she’ll know, and probably refuse to do the spell at all. So honesty is important. And on that note, Jackson, I’ve got some information for you that I need you to listen to, so we can clear up some presumptions you’ve made about your life, lest you give Rebekah false information and cock up the spell.”

“I’m all ears,” Jackson says.

“Yeah, that’s you, Jackson Whittemore, the good listener,” Stiles says. He sees Danny tensing up and tries to ease them into it. “You don’t know anything about your biological parents. Right?”

Jackson shifts a little and says, “Yeah. So?”

“So, you should know what happened to them.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Jackson says. “Not interested.”

Stiles sighs. There doesn’t seem to be any way to soften the blow, but he’ll try to work around what Danny’s told him, so Jackson doesn’t think Danny was spreading his personal business around. “I’m going to guess that the reason you’re so pissed off is because you think that they left you in a trash can somewhere.” He sees Jackson open his mouth and talks louder to head him off before he can say anything. “Well, they didn’t. Your parents died in a car crash. One of those unfortunate, really-nobody’s-fault accidents caused by bad weather, low visibility, and a blown tire. Your mom was pregnant with you at the time. You were delivered by c-section at the hospital. You made it. Your mom didn’t.”

Jackson’s mouth is half open. Stiles can see him in the rearview mirror, just _staring_.

“So whatever you think about why your real parents gave you up, whatever terrible assumptions you’ve made about them, you can put all that aside now,” Stiles says.

“How . . .” Jackson manages.

“Dumb luck, actually,” Stiles says. “Erica’s dad was the insurance claims investigator on the case, and she knew about it.”

“But . . .” Jackson’s voice trails off. He doesn’t seem to have any idea of what to say. Stiles can’t blame him for that.

“Now, I’m going to use my awesome skills at deduction and gather from your reaction that this is your first time hearing this information,” Stiles continues. “My guess is you asked your parents and they said ‘we’ll tell you when you’re older’ and you extrapolated a bunch of terrible things. When really, my next guess is that they just figured it was too gory, what with the emergency c-section and everything.” He glances at his rearview mirror again and sees Jackson swallow, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. There’s no way to soften it, so he just keeps talking. “Apparently, your parents had been trying to have kids for a while and had started talking about adopting. A friend of your mother happened to be one of the ER nurses that night and called your mom when she found out that your biological parents didn’t have any relatives who could take the child.

“I know that you’ve spent a lot of years thinking your parents didn’t want you, but you’re thinking about it all wrong,” Stiles says. “Any two schmucks with a dick and a vagina can make a baby by accident, if they’re careless, if the condom breaks, if they’re not safe. But when you’re adopted, you _know_ the people who took you in wanted you. They wanted you _so_ bad. And it’s not just that they wanted a baby, Jackson. They wanted _you_. I talked to that friend of your mother’s. I guess you were in pretty rough shape for the first couple weeks because you were premature. She says your mom just sat by your bassinet all the time, day and night, singing to you, because you were too fragile for her to hold or touch. And when the doctors said that you might have permanent damage due to the circumstances of your birth, your parents just said okay, we’ll take him in no matter what, we’ll foot the bill for everything, because he’s _ours_ , even if all we get to do is hold him overnight and pay for his funeral tomorrow. God, Jackson, I know that life is rough for everybody, we all have our own burdens to bear, but don’t ever, _ever_ think that you aren’t wanted.”

His gaze flicks up to the rearview mirror again. He can see Jackson struggling to control himself as tears slide silently down his cheeks. Danny reaches over to put a hand on his shoulder. Jackson bats it away, but then presses a hand against his face to hide his tears. He’s losing his composure completely, and Stiles can’t hate him anymore, despite what he’s done. He reaches over and turns the music up until it’s blaring, to give Jackson some semblance of privacy as he leans into Danny’s shoulder and breaks down.

The drive passes pretty much in silence except for the music and Stiles singing and drumming along, because he literally cannot help it; he’s got to have _something_ to do. Driving is not enough to take up all his concentration.

He’s called ahead to make sure Rebekah’s working, and she is. She gives Jackson the side eye, but Stiles reassures her that he knows about Jackson’s powers and everything is under control. She makes a charm for each of them, and Stiles resists the urge to tell Jackson to pay for his own. He probably wouldn’t tip well.

Once they’re back out at the car, they each put the little charm on a chain and put it over their heads, and then Stiles allows himself a sigh of relief. He feels better now that Danny has one. The only reason he agreed to put it off for a day was because, frankly, he doesn’t know that it will stop Stone. He had ample opportunity to get some sort of sample from both Danny and Jackson that will allow him to get around it.

“Never take it off,” he says to Danny, who nods. “Not for sleep, showering, lacrosse, anything.” To Jackson, he adds, “You can do whatever the hell you want, but don’t come crying to me if Stone breaks you. Capisce?”

“Whatever,” Jackson says. Stiles rolls his eyes and gets in the car. The drive back to Beacon Hills is just as painful as the drive there. It’s past time when school will be out, and he’s sure he’ll find the rest of the pack at his house, so he brings Danny with him. The other teenager texts his parents to let them know he’s going over to a friend’s house and will be back after dinner.

The others are indeed there, and so is his father. He glances up as Stiles comes in with the others. “Hey, what are you doing home?” Stiles asks.

“Wanted to touch base with you about the hearing,” Sheriff Stilinski says, “and then I’ll drive Jackson home and see him safely into the arms of his parents.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “How’d it go?”

“No dismissal,” Stilinski says, and the words are like a punch to the gut, although Stiles is glad his father didn’t drag it out. “Sixty days for discovery and depositions. Trial date isn’t set yet.”

“Shit, I can’t believe this is _actually_ going to go to – ” Stiles clenches his jaw over all the foul language that wants to come out of his mouth. “And it’s going to drag on for another two months. Fucking excellent. That, that is just what I needed to hear today. What about the surveillance videos?”

“Still gathering footage,” Stilinski says. “I’ll sit down with you tonight with what I’ve got.”

“Okay. Cool. Fine.” Stiles pushes his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in loose spikes. “You go do, whatever, you know, take Jackson home and be a sheriff and shit. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.” His father leans in and squeezes his shoulder, but doesn’t hug him, doesn’t crowd him. Then he turns and gestures for Jackson to follow him, which the teenager does, more than happy to get away from Stiles, who looks like he’s about to explode.

After his father’s sensible departure, Stiles stands for upwards of a full minute, fists clenched by his sides, body vibrating with tension. Coping mechanisms, he reminds himself, and the pack is shifting uneasily. His rage affects all of them. So he swallows it down, at least for the moment, and turns to face the others. He focuses on Danny, poor, bewildered Danny, and says, “So. What’s your method of dealing with stress? Cuddles or violence?”

Startled, Danny blurts out, “Violence.” Then he snaps his mouth shut because two very different scenarios are playing out in his mind. One is a game of lacrosse; the other is Stiles flattening Jackson in the cafeteria and Scott seeming to be genuinely worried about Jackson’s ability to breathe afterwards. “Wait. Can I ask questions?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Of course.”

“When you say violence, are you talking about a game of pick up lacrosse or something, or are you talking about that ninja shit you pulled on Jackson?” Danny looks around at the rest of the pack and thinks that if it’s the second, maybe he’ll just stay inside and watch a movie with the girls.

Oblivious to his internal gender-stereotyping, Stiles says, “More like, I’m going to go out back with a baseball bat and try to beat the shit out of Derek, and he’s going to stop me.”

Derek gives a little shrug. “Don’t worry; it won’t be the scary bat.”

“There are levels?” Danny asks incredulously.

“Absolutely,” Lydia informs him.

Scott takes some pity on him and says, “Well, a blunt object wouldn’t do a lot of damage to a werewolf, you know? So Stiles has a special one that has silver wire on it so it’ll actually hurt werewolves. But he doesn’t use it on us, obviously, because he doesn’t actually want to hurt us.”

“Right,” Danny says. He’s clearly trying to take in the fact that baseball bats aren’t all that dangerous to him anymore. “Have you guys thought about writing a handbook? Anyway, I, uh, I think I’m going to go with cuddles.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “And, uh, no handbook. Under normal circumstances, we would’ve gone over all of this kind of shit with you in detail before we turned you, but . . . anyway, just ask whatever you want, they’ll make sure you know everything you need to know.” He ducks out from underneath Derek’s arm and heads out back. Derek follows. After a few moments, Allison and Erica do as well. Scott hedges for a moment, then shakes his head when Allison gives him a questioning look over her shoulder. He’s too edgy for violence to be a good idea right now.

“Popcorn?” Lydia asks, heading into the kitchen. Boyd and Isaac drag over the armchair and a few cushions so there will be room for everyone in front of the television.

Danny nods, looking over how everyone has divided up. In the end, he can’t say that he’s surprised that Erica went with Stiles. That girl has a mean streak. But Allison caught him off guard. “I didn’t expect Allison to . . .” He isn’t even sure how to finish the sentence. He’s equally surprised about big, bulky Boyd staying in, but maybe he shouldn’t be. It’s not like Boyd’s ever tried out for the lacrosse team.

Scott looks up and grins a little. “Allison’s our combat instructor,” he says. “Along with Derek.”

That makes Danny do a double take. “Allison.”

“Yup,” Scott says. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that he’s incredibly proud of his girlfriend. “She’s got the skills.”

“You think that’s hot, don’t you,” Danny says, amused at Scott’s response.

“Hell yeah,” Scott says enthusiastically.

“You should see her with a bow and arrow,” Isaac agrees, in his usual awkward sort of way when complimenting Allison. “It’s just . . .”

“Devastating,” Lydia says, coming in with the popcorn and tossing a piece at Danny’s mouth.

Danny automatically opens his mouth and tries to catch it; they’ve played this game before. It bounces off his nose, which is pretty normal. Snatching it up in one hand without fumbling is a little more strange, though. He blinks at it once before popping it into his mouth. “So she taught Stiles all that stuff that he used on Jackson when Jackson got all up in his face that day at school?”

“Yeah,” Lydia says. “She learns it from her dad, who does that kind of stuff for a living. Then she teaches all of it to us.” She flops down on the sofa and pats the space next to her.

Danny drops down next to her at a socially respectable distance and then after a moment, gives into the twitching need to be close, and snuggles right up to her side. “What does he do? Teach mixed martial arts or something?” he asks, as Boyd settles down on his other side and commandeers the remotes.

“He hunts werewolves,” Lydia says brightly, as Isaac and Scott both sit down on the cushions in front of them and Boyd starts fast-forwarding through menus and previews. “But only bad ones. He leaves us alone.”

“That’s . . . just not the answer I was expecting.” Danny slouches down, fitting himself between Lydia and Boyd. It makes him feel safer. They obviously know the ropes, and he imagines he can just hide behind them. Maybe literally in Boyd’s case.

“There’s lots of werewolf stuff we would’ve told you about before we turned you if it’d all been done in, you know, the typical way,” Scott says. “Like about hunters, and the way the pack fits together, and why you’re edgy because Stiles is edgy, and . . . there’s just a lot of shit to go over, you know? But we’ve been trying to take it slow since it’s a big change.”

“So should I just ask as things come up?” Danny asks. “Or will that make my head explode, too?”

“That’s probably the best way to go about it,” Lydia says, and the others nod agreement. Danny accepts this and directs his attention to the movie that’s starting.

Ten minutes later, Erica comes back inside. There’s blood on her chin from a split lip that’s already healed, and one sleeve of her shirt has been completely torn off. Despite this, she seems quite cheerful and perky. “Stiles is really beating the stuffing out of Derek back there,” she says brightly. “Think we should charge for tickets?”

Danny goggles at her. “Are you . . . uh . . .” He wants to ask if she’s okay, but she’s clearly fine. He’s beginning to think that there’s just something wrong with Erica.

Lydia snorts. “Are you kidding? I don’t think Stiles is in the mood for spectators right now.”

“True,” Erica says cheerfully. “Hey, popcorn.” She plops down in Boyd’s lap, her legs sprawling across Danny’s lap and feet ending up in Lydia’s. Danny curls a hand over one of her calves like it’s the most natural thing in the world, without even thinking about it.

Scott holds out a box of tissues to Erica. “Before you get blood on Boyd and one of his little sisters starts quizzing him.”

“Right,” Erica says, wiping the blood off her chin.

They’re about halfway through the movie when the back door opens again and the others come in. Stiles’ feet are dragging, and he’s obviously exhausted. Allison’s moving a little stiffly, although Derek seems all right. She immediately curls up on the cushion with Scott, cuddling close to him. Stiles groans and drags another bean bag chair over in front of the sofa, collapsing onto it. He leans his head against Lydia’s calf and loops an arm around Danny’s, knowing that his new pack member will find comfort in his alpha’s touch.

Danny relaxes into a nearly boneless state against Stiles’ hand. The understated nervous buzzing that he hadn’t exactly been aware of stops, and he sighs contently. Derek, for his part, sprawls out on the floor, ending with his head and shoulders in Stiles’ lap. Anyone whose feet or legs he ends up lying on, well, that’s their problem.

Stiles manages to stay still for fifteen entire minutes before he begins to shift uneasily, and then five minutes after that he says, “Who wants gingersnaps?” and springs to his feet.

Everyone around Danny comes to attention. A huge grin spreads over Erica’s face. “Ooooh, the virgin cookie face!” She slaps a hand against Boyd’s chest. “You’ve never seen it live before.”

“Can’t wait,” Boyd remarks, amused.

Danny just blinks. “What the actual fuck does that mean?”

Lydia takes out her phone and starts scrolling through photographs, then shows Danny a picture of Erica making a face that would be considered close to orgasmic. “So it all started when Stiles said that the working dogs at the station go nuts over his gingersnaps.”

“Wolves aren’t dogs!” Derek announces from the floor. He sort of has to protest, or else people will think he’s sick again.

Everyone ignores him. Lydia slides to a new photo, this one of Isaac. “Just in case you don’t recognize the expression of unadulterated bliss on a woman’s face,” she says, and Danny gives her a good-natured shove.

“They’re really good,” Isaac says. “I mean, dude, you just have to . . . they’re just really good.”

Danny nods and looks at Stiles. “I will have some of your sex cookies.”

Amused, Stiles says, “Try to contain your excitement. The dough has to refrigerate for an hour before I can bake them.”

“Now I’ve been cookie blocked,” Danny mourns. Stiles just lets out a snort of laughter and wanders into the kitchen. They can hear him whistling as he starts baking. Derek has half-risen as if to follow him, but when he hears the whistling, settles back down. Danny presumes that the whistling is a good sign.

Stiles does come back for the second half of the movie, although he’s sitting there fiddling with his laptop while he watches, apparently incapable of sitting still for that long. By the time the movie is over, the cookies are in the oven. Danny is trying to find the words to express how amazing they smell. “I don’t even usually like gingersnaps,” he says, as Stiles pulls a tray out of the oven and starts fending off salivating werewolves with a spatula.

“They’re too hot! You’ll burn yourselves!” he says, swatting Erica’s hand with the implement.

“I’d heal,” she says, staring at the cookies greedily.

Allison laughs and says, “You won’t even be able to taste them if you burn off your taste buds.”

Scott knows better than to challenge the spatula, and just waits. Meanwhile, Derek is very quietly trying to edge around Stiles. Stiles seems oblivious to this as he turns to set the oven’s timer for the next batch of cookies, but as soon as Derek reaches for a cookie, the teenager turns around and literally throws himself at Derek, glomping onto him with so much force that he’s knocked backwards. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and says, “Gotcha!”

Derek makes a startled noise, one arm wrapping around Stiles automatically and the other flailing for balance as they tumble back into the fridge. “You’re a lunatic!” he protests, but he’s nearly laughing as he says it. His goal was really more to amuse Stiles than to actually get a cookie, so he considers this a win.

“Aren’t they adorable?” Erica says to Danny, her mouth full of cookie. “Fuck me, that’s hot,” she announces cheerfully, grabbing another. Lydia and Scott already have one crammed into their faces as well.

“I am never going to fuck you, darling,” Danny replies cheerfully, while watching Stiles and Derek. He thinks back to the first time he saw Stiles throw himself at Derek, and how he had wondered if his gaydar was broken. But no, it’s really not. There’s no sexual attraction here. He’s not sure how he knows it, but he does. On the other hand, he can tell that neither of them are on the market anymore, and they never will be. He takes another sniff and says, “Give me one of those,” snatching up a cookie.

Derek looks up from where his face is squished in Stiles’ shoulder. “Turn around or you’ll miss it. The cookie face.” He pokes Stiles in the side, where he’s ticklish.

Stiles’ feet drop back to the floor and he squirms away from Derek’s hand. “Asshole,” he says, but turns around readily enough.

Derek keeps an arm around his waist and pulls him so he’s nestled right into the line of Derek’s body. “You love me anyway,” he says, as everyone stares at Danny, who’s starting to feel extremely awkward about this whole cookie business. Allison, the only person besides Stiles who isn’t desperate to get to one of the cookies, holds up her phone to get a picture. Somewhat nervously, Danny takes a bite. Then he gives an involuntary moan.

“Hah!” Stiles says. “Success!” He pulls away from Derek and busies himself getting another tray ready to go in the oven. “I’ve never met a werewolf I couldn’t win over with my gingersnaps,” he says, perhaps a bit smugly.

“Did you actually give any to the alpha pack?” Derek asks.

“While they were here? No,” Stiles says. “But I may have possibly sent them a care package later. Uh, at least one of them might have proposed marriage. I turned them down, though.”

“Which one?” Derek asks, then realizes Stiles used the plural. “Wait. ‘At least’? Them? How many people have tried to marry you?”

“They didn’t try; they just asked, it was Yas and Justin, like you know, a polyamory kind of thing,” Stiles says cheerfully as he rolls the dough between his palms and dips each one in sugar before placing it on the tray. “I would’ve totally said yes, too, if it meant I got a shot at Yasmin, because _damn_.”

“Everything’s cool between alphas and lupas, huh?” Derek says, boosting himself up to sit on his normal spot on the counter.

“Do I even want to know?” Danny asks, halfway through his third cookie. “If I get fat, I’m blaming all of you.”

“Fair,” Stiles says. He glances at the timer on the oven and says, “We can tell you the whole story, but . . . I’ve been kind of afraid it would scare the shit out of you. Yes, even after everything you’ve seen with Jackson going psycho and his personal murder lizard and shit.”

“More scary than the fact that an albino Komodo dragon thing tried to eat us, or that you come up with cute nicknames like ‘personal murder lizard’ or _anyone_ knowing how to get all that shit out of my backyard like nothing ever happened?” Danny asks, then pauses. “Shit. I sounded a little hysterical there, didn’t I.”

Derek reaches over and rubs a hand over his hair. “Just a little,” he says, and Danny resists the urge to crawl into Derek’s lap. He remembers seeing Derek do the exact same thing to Lydia on the day he had found out about the pack. He hadn’t understood, just from watching, how strangely soothing the gesture was.

“And yes,” Stiles says, “because no one has _actually_ died or been shot and I haven’t even needed to poison myself, so all things considered, we’re actually not doing too badly.”

“And you will _not_ be poisoning yourself,” Derek says, glaring at Stiles.

“Is death . . . very likely?” Danny asks hesitantly.

Stiles purses his lips and slides the next batch of cookies out of the oven. “I don’t dare say I’ve got everything under control, since there’s no faster way to jinx myself,” he says, “but things are definitely looking up from a week ago. So I’ll say death is a possibility, but one that I’m doing everything in my power to prevent.”

“And when Stiles is set on something . . .” Scott begins.

“Look out world,” half the pack agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter because somehow it's full of both angst and lulz.

 

Stiles realizes on Friday that he’s developing a nervous habit of patting his pocket to make sure that the bullet is still there. He never goes anywhere without it; he’s terrified of what would happen if he let it out of his sight. But he still has no idea what to do with the damned thing. Between school and the game, the pack decides to go down to the pizza parlor they frequent. It’s another away game, when there won’t really be time to do much of anything else.

School has been a little less taxing of late. Jackson’s back in classes now, and so is Danny. His first day back, he stood in the cafeteria with his tray of school food, gaze darting between Stiles’ table and the table he normally sits at with his jock friends. He looked so unsure of himself that Stiles got up and jogged over to say, “Go sit with your friends. This school already has enough drama without people thinking I stole you for my weird clique.”

“Thanks,” Danny said, deflating with relief. He sees them after school every day, and there are always two or three of them at his place at night. He’s glad it’s the weekend and he can stay with the pack. It’ll be his first ‘pack sleepover’ and he’s found that he’s looking forward to it.

In addition to that, Stiles buckled down and got help with Harris. Not with their useless principal, but his nice, helpful, interested history teacher, Mrs. Jimenez. The one who wants him to talk about his PTSD with the class. He struck up a conversation with her about it after school and acted upset and anxious, fidgety, saying that he was so worried about what would happen with his dog and how Harris was making the school such an uncomfortable environment for him. She offered to talk to Harris. Stiles gave her a wobbly smile and said, “No, the whole thing is just too complicated, you shouldn’t get involved . . . I’ll muddle through somehow.”

Stiles long ago learned that acting vulnerable-but-brave is a great way to get middle-aged mothers on one’s side. He has no idea what Mrs. Jimenez said to Harris – or what she said to every other teacher at school, if the cold shoulder they’re all giving Harris is any indication – but Harris has stopped following him around. In fact, he hasn’t seen the man in days.

Over pepperoni and mushrooms, Stiles explains the bullet’s origins and significance to the rest of the pack. “So here are the options,” he says. “We could destroy it. We could give it back to him. We could do nothing with it.”

“Can we use it as a weapon against him?” Allison asks.

“Theoretically yes, practically no,” Stiles says. “It’s possible, yeah, but none of _us_ can do it. We don’t have the talent, skill, education, et cetera.”

“Well, what if we trade it back to him?” Scott suggests. “In exchange for some magically binding promise that he won’t ever screw with us again?”

Stiles takes a long drink of his Coke. “Apart from the fact that just shoving him out into the world not really being an awesome thing to do, I’ve got two concerns about that. The first is that he’ll find some loophole. But second is that, if he uses the bullet to trade away for power, he’ll become so powerful that losing some power by breaking his oath will be a price he’s willing to pay.”

Several of the others nod. Lydia twines a strand of hair around her finger and says, “If we wanted to destroy it, do we even know how to go about doing that?”

“No,” Stiles says, “but I think we could find out. Deaton won’t help us, but we’ve got enough contacts that we could work it out. I bet Rebekah would know, and God knows that Derek tips well enough that she’d be willing to tell us.”

“Okay, but destroying it doesn’t do us any God damned good,” Erica says through a mouthful of pizza. “What do we do to him then? Tear his throat out with our teeth?”

“I’d be up for that,” Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I agree that it’s not optimal, but it’s better than him getting hold of it, I think. But then I was thinking, maybe we should use it to set up a trap. You know, _tell_ him we’re going to trade it back to him, and _then_ tear his throat out with our teeth.” He pauses. “Well, not _our_ teeth. You guys’ teeth. But you see what I mean.”

“Wouldn’t he see that coming?” Boyd asks. “I mean, it seems pretty obvious.”

“We’d have to be careful about how we do it,” Stiles agrees. “It’d be better if it looks like Deaton was making the offer. Which, hey, we have a hacker now, so if we needed to get into Deaton’s e-mail . . .”

“Oh, geez,” Danny says, although he’s laughing. “What did I get myself into?”

“So send him an e-mail from Deaton’s account that says, ‘I can’t take it anymore, if I give you the bullet, will you go the fuck away’?” Erica asks, snatching another slice of pizza.

“Right. Only in haiku.”

“Of course,” Isaac says, rolling his eyes a little. “Do we know what’s up with that?”

“Dr. Deaton says they used to have contests to make up haiku on the fly,” Scott says. When Stiles gives him a surprised look, he shrugs and says, “I asked him about it at work the other day. He says that it’s a game they would play, since the pattern is so strict.”

“Gosh, that would be cute if Stone hadn’t grown up to become psycho,” Lydia says.

“Let’s be fair, he was psycho back then, too,” Allison points out.

“So we lure him into a trap,” Boyd says, steering them back on topic. “Then what?”

“I have a few ideas,” Allison says, patting her bag, where they all know her crossbow is waiting. Stiles doubts that they’ll be able to come at him head on like that, but he has to admit that he finds a sniper shot to be the best option. Something that he won’t see coming and won’t be able to defend against. But he doesn’t want Allison to be the one to do it. For one thing, bullets travel faster than arrows. Secondly, if there’s any sort of backlash, he doesn’t want it directed at her. But he’ll need to be the one holding Stone’s attention, so someone else will need to fire the shot.

He needs to talk to Chris.

If he can find out where Stone is living, then it’s possible he can get the drop on him without having to set up any sort of fake trade. But the odds seem slim. Both times they’ve gone onto Stone’s territory, he’s just showed up out of nowhere. He had known they were there, both times. But Stiles isn’t sure how Stone has done that. Does he have a spell that would notify him of any trespasser? Or is it tuned somehow to Stiles and his pack? Because if it’s the latter, then Chris wouldn’t give it any trouble. He could get in and lie in wait. And Stiles has no problem asking Chris to do his dirty work for him. Not in a situation like this, not when the hunter has basically already offered to do what’s necessary.

He puts all of it aside because he’s got a lacrosse game to go to. They go out onto the field and practice with Danny about how _not_ to be a werewolf during games. It’s easier for him, because he’s usually goalie, so he doesn’t have to worry about throwing balls through the nets at the speed of sound or breaking anyone’s shoulder. His superhuman reflexes can really only help, but Stiles recommends he let one or two goals get through, just so nobody gets suspicious. Danny nods and says sure, but Stiles is pretty sure that for the next couple games, at least, nobody on the opposing team is going to score any goals. Which is fine by him.

Danny’s now been a werewolf for five days, and he still hasn’t shifted at all. Derek says that’s unusual, but not unheard of, especially given the circumstances of his turn and the fact that the moon is waning. He’s guessing that they won’t have to worry about Danny shifting until after the new moon, which is still several days away. Danny’s naturally easy-going personality keeps him from having the same problems Scott or Isaac or even Erica did. Still, his friendly punch to Jackson’s shoulder during the car trip left some ugly bruises, so they’re working with him on controlling his strength.

History is made that evening when Stiles is in a perfect position, when he has a great shot, and Jackson actually _passes the ball to him_ , enabling him to score. After which Stiles says, in a casual, manly sort of way, “Thanks for the assist, dude,” and Jackson grunts back, “Yeah, nice shot,” and Stiles sees Danny standing with a stupid-happy grin on his face. They win in a complete shut-out, four-nothing, against a good team, too. Finstock is practically out of his mind, quoting Apocalypse Now and talking about teamwork.

The game was a fair distance away, and Stiles zones out on the bus ride home, thinking about the bullet, about how they need to put Stone down, and Peter says, “I do like you, Stiles,” and he startles, waking the people nearest him. Derek puts a paw on his leg, and he says, “I’m okay,” in a quiet little voice. But it sobers his mood up somewhat. Since he’s awake now, he types up a long e-mail to Gwen, updating her on the Harris situation and saying that he hasn’t had more visual flashbacks but is still having the auditory ones.

Of course, he’s a little irritated at Gwen at the moment. On Wednesday night, while they’d been combing through the surveillance camera footage for the ninth time, his father had said, “So, I hear you went ahead and did that report on wolf genotyping.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “So what?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s gaze was fixed on the laptop’s monitor. “Might as well send it over to me. Kolenberg can take a look at it, see if it’s anything we can use in discovery. Make sure you include a bibliography so he can check your sources.”

Stiles frowned as he caught a glimpse of Stone’s ankle as he just barely avoided a camera. “Why do you suddenly want to see it?”

His father let out a sigh. “Apparently, telling you that you can’t help is only frustrating you worse,” he says. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles reached out and paused the playback with a jab of his finger. “You talked to Gwen at the hearing.”

“Well, I am your father, and I – ”

“Not cool, Dad!” Stiles protested. “I can only talk to her because it’s, you know, private and shit. You can’t go asking her how I’m doing!”

Stilinski studied his son. “Do you not want to send me the report?”

“Yes, I’ll send you the God damned report, but that’s totally not the point,” Stiles said, suddenly terrified that Gwen told his father about the flashbacks and auditory hallucinations he’s been having. He’s pretty sure that his father will want him on meds if he finds out about those. “Yes, okay, being told there’s nothing I can do is frustrating. Why does that surprise you? You’ve only known me seventeen years.”

Stilinski lifted his hands in surrender. “It’s more than just your ADD, son. She says it’s about you being an alpha. About how even when you’re not in charge, having your hands tied will frustrate your, your nature.”

“Don’t try to pass this off as some wolf thing, you – oh my _God_ ,” Stiles said, so suddenly and vehemently that Derek looked over from where he’s sketching. “You – you – you tricked me! You kept me from contributing to the case because you _knew_ that when you said me going into therapy would help, I would do it because at least it would be something I could do! You devious, conniving, manipulative son of a bitch! Now I totally see where I get it from.” He folded his arms over his chest and glared at the monitor.

Sheriff Stilinski started the video feed again and they stared at it in silence for almost five minutes. Then he reached out and paused it again. “I was worried about you,” he said.

“You’re a terrible person,” Stiles said, not looking at him.

“You needed help, Stiles. This was the only way I could think of to get you to accept it.”

Stiles reached out and started the video again, still displaying the same empty streets. His father grabbed the mouse and stopped it.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“Hell, yes, I’m mad at you,” Stiles snapped. “I, I’m not saying that I don’t understand why you did it, or that I wouldn’t have done the same thing if I were in your shoes, or that, that you weren’t right or it’s not going to help me or anything like that. But I reserve the right to be mad at you. At least for a day or two.”

“That seems fair,” Stilinski said, reaching out and tousling his hair.

“Nothing but egg whites and brown rice and, and pureed celery for you,” Stiles retorted. He saw his father grimace and gave a nod of satisfaction. Then he redirected his attention to the screen. “Ugh, this is fucking hopeless.”

Which it is. Sheriff Stilinski has gotten footage from eight different security cameras in the area surrounding the warehouse. While they have gotten an occasional glimpse of Stone walking down the street, they haven’t seen him get in or out of a car, or been able to trace his movements in any sort of meaningful way. It’s as if, for the hour before and after the meeting, he was just wandering around on foot, walking in circles with no purpose.

In any case, Stiles types out his update to Gwen and ends it with, ‘And don’t think I don’t realize you talked to my dad behind my back at the hearing. Pull that shit again and we’re done.’

They get back to Beacon Hills around eleven PM, and they’ve decided to spend the night at Derek’s apartment so they can sleep in a wolf pile on his piles of cushions and blankets. They each take turns sitting down with Danny and talking about various ways to get in touch with their inner wolf, but still nothing. “You’re . . . sure the bite turned him?” Isaac asks somewhat dubiously. “None of the rest of us had this trouble.”

“Pretty much the opposite,” Scott agrees.

“If the bite hadn’t turned him, he wouldn’t be here,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek’s typical lack of tact. “But . . . yeah, I’ll admit it’s weird.”

“Sometimes I feel myself starting to . . . you know . . . change,” Danny says, and can’t hold back a little shudder. “But then I, you know, push it back. It’s sort of reflexive. Like, you know, sometimes when you’re sick and you want to puke, but you keep not letting yourself.”

Derek gives him a somewhat flummoxed look, both because he doesn’t really understand the metaphor and because it’s disconcerting to hear the shift compared to vomiting. “I, uh, I don’t really . . . what?”

“Well, try to relax a little,” Boyd says. “I sort of had the same problem, but at least I had _asked_ to be turned. You didn’t. So maybe it’ll just take some time to get used to.”

Stiles agrees. “Let’s not push it,” he says. “You won’t be the only person-shaped-person in the wolf pile. It’s late. Let’s get some sleep.”

He doesn’t really _want_ to sleep; he’s tired but edgy, and that means nightmares are a certainty. But he also doesn’t want to make Danny’s first night in the pack weird, so he curls up with the rest of them. Danny is duly warned about a) the fact that he will almost certainly wake up cuddling someone, b) Derek and Lydia’s propensity to throw off their clothes, and c) the possibility that Stiles might wake everyone up shouting at some point. He takes all of this in stride, curls up around Lydia with Erica pressed into his back, and falls right to sleep.

Stiles finds himself jerking awake every time he starts to drift off. He thinks about taking one of the new pills Gwen had given him, but it’s too late at night; he’d sleep until past noon if it worked. He has a nightmare about the trunk and has to open all of Derek’s windows, even though it’s early November and getting cold outside. Then he realizes he’s being stupid and shuts them all, and settles for pacing around Derek’s apartment, hoping that nobody notices he’s left the bedroom. He doesn’t dare bake; someone will hear the mixer and come check on him. He turns on the television with the volume down and watches for a half hour or so, before he feels Peter’s hand on the back of his neck and smells the nurse’s flowery perfume and decaying body. He lets out a strangled whimper and dives into Derek’s liquor cabinet. If he can’t sleep, he’ll get so drunk that he doesn’t care. He takes several large swallows of whiskey and then crawls back into the pile of cushions and wolves.

He does manage to get a couple hours of sleep, and wakes the next morning just after dawn with a headache and an overall groggy feeling. Fortunately for him, he’s able to brush his teeth before any of the wolves smell the liquor on his breath. He drinks a glass of water and dives into breakfast-making. The others are still sleeping; they didn’t get to bed until after midnight. But nobody will protest him getting up early to bake. They’re used to that.

While he’s at it, he zips off a text to Justin. He’s worried about Danny and the fact that he either can’t or won’t shift. It doesn’t matter so much now, while the moon is waning, but next week it’s going to be a different story. He doesn’t want to have to deal with it while everything else is happening, and hopes that Justin will have some useful advice.

He’s elbow deep in dough for cinnamon rolls when his phone jingles to alert him to an incoming text. Once he’s rolled it up and it’s rising, he cleans off his hands and picks up his phone. Justin has sent back, ‘So he *can* change but he’s stopping it before it happens?’

‘That’s the impression I got, yeah,’ Stiles replies.

‘And I assume you’ve tried all the usuals like meditation and deep breathing to get him to relax while it happens?’

‘Yep. A couple hours of different tricks.’

‘Ok then. Get him stoned.’

Stiles bursts out in startled laughter despite himself. ‘What?’

‘I’m totally srs dude. Weed. No better cure for the unwilling werewolf.’

Shaking his head in amusement, Stiles replies, ‘I’m the son of the sheriff, remember?’

‘Great. He probably has some in an evidence locker somewhere and you won’t even have to pay for it.’

Seeing that Justin is not about to change his mind, Stiles says he’ll get right on that and turns his attention back to breakfast. He can hear a few people stirring in the bedroom – probably Allison and Boyd; they’re typically the early risers. He looks through Derek’s refrigerator for more food. Derek has a guy’s fridge: two six-packs of beer, a twelve-pack of soda, bread, deli meat, condiments, and not much else. His freezer is stocked with microwave burritos, waffles, and ice cream. But there’s also some steaks, because Derek, being a werewolf, likes his red meat. “Good old-fashioned cowboy breakfast,” Stiles decides, getting out the steaks and digging through the pantry for some potatoes. It won’t exactly go well with the cinnamon rolls, but nobody in the pack has ever complained about getting cinnamon rolls, so that’s okay.

An hour or so later, everybody has rolled out of bed and is digging into breakfast. Stiles decides to leave discussion about marijuana for a later time, like possibly never, and reads the e-mail he’s gotten from Gwen. She sensibly does not point out that, as he’s a minor, she’s completely entitled to talk to his father. Instead, she apologizes and says that although she will sometimes need to talk to him, she’ll make sure to clear it with Stiles first next time.

“So what’s on the schedule for today?” Allison asks, as she helps clear the table.

“I’m thinking we’ll take Danny out into the forest and play parkour werewolves,” Stiles says. “I know it’s kind of a day late and a dollar short, but it’ll help him get adjusted to the wolfy senses and such.”

“Parkour werewolves?” Danny asks, laughing.

“It’s more fun than you’d think,” Isaac says. “My first day as a werewolf, we went out and played tag and hide and seek and just . . . kid’s games. It sounds stupid, but it was actually awesome.”

“Uh huh.” Danny gives them a skeptical look. It’s the sort of look Stiles remembers well, in that Danny used to give it to him whenever they came within ten feet of each other. He looks at Erica and Boyd and says, “Did you guys do this?”

“I went shopping,” Erica said brightly. “I didn’t really get put through my paces until about a week later, when I had been weaned off all my meds. But it was still fun.”

“I did it,” Boyd says. “And yeah, it sounds weird, but it’s cool.”

Danny still looks skeptical. Stiles says, “If you’d rather stay in here and do your homework . . .”

“No, I’m good,” Danny says hastily. The rest of the pack lets out a snort of laughter. They finish cleaning up in the kitchen and head out into the woods. Danny doesn’t take to wolf games the way the others did, but he gets into it after a while. Even Stiles manages to enjoy himself, despite being aware that there are other things he should probably be doing. Except for the part where he can’t think of anything. He doesn’t know what to do with the bullet. Doesn’t know how they can track Stone down. Can’t do anything about the upcoming court case. Even his school work is largely caught up at this point, thanks to several nights of insomnia.

Danny still doesn’t shift, though, and Stiles sees him at several points stop and just _stand_ for a minute, fists clenched at his sides like he’s forcing it back down. Guilt over what he’s done to Danny nearly chokes Stiles, and it takes him several minutes to get back into the game. That evening, Danny decides he wants to go see how Jackson’s doing, and they all agree they’ll meet back at Derek’s that night. Stiles heads back to his house with Derek, Erica, and Isaac.

“So, Dad,” he says, putting a plate of baked chicken (skin removed) and cauliflower down in front of his father, “what’s your official stance on marijuana?”

Sheriff Stilinski gives his son an ‘are you kidding me’ sort of look. “Do I even want to know why you’re asking me that?”

“Danny’s having trouble with shifting,” Stiles says. “It’s not so much a problem now, but when the moon is getting closer to full, it will be. Justin suggested mellowing him out with some well-placed weed.”

“Seriously?” Derek asks, looking pained.

“Yeah, seriously,” Stiles says. “I mean, to be honest, marijuana _does_ make you extremely mellow.” He sees his father’s raised eyebrows and adds hastily, “Which I would know, if I had tried it, which I haven’t.”

Stilinski rolls his eyes a little. “Then my official stance on marijuana is that I tried it a few times in college and it never did much for me besides make me sleepy, and if this is a _real_ recommendation and something that might actually help, not just an excuse to get high, all I have to say is that you had better not get caught with it.”

“Noted on all counts,” Stiles says, and wonders how one goes about getting marijuana anyway. He’s only tried it once, as a freshman, when he had literally had it pushed into his hand at a party. Alcohol is a lot easier to come by, and he’s never really had the urge to go out and do drugs of any kind. His own brain screws him up enough. He’s sure that either Lydia or Danny will know.

He tells his dad about how he vanquished Mr. Harris at school, which his father finds predictably amusing, and then his father tells him about the long chat he had with Jackson’s father when he was at the station on unrelated business. Apparently, Mr. Whittemore has been telling anyone who will stand still long enough to listen that he personally investigated Harris’ claims and can assure them that Harris is full of shit and the lawsuit is ‘complete baloney’. He’s talking about writing a letter to the editor to reiterate this. Stiles appreciates this. Apparently, being merciful and not killing Jackson has reaped some unexpected benefits. There are allies a lot worse than the district attorney.

They get back to Derek’s around nine. Most of the others are already there. Scott has picked Danny up. It’s a little awkward, although not too bad. Danny is the first pack member that’s just _different_ from the rest of them. The bond draws him in as tightly as ever, but he’s just not used to hanging out in the same way they do. Stiles thinks again of how Danny had barely tolerated his presence at the same table for the few times in high school when they sat together, back when Lydia had still been dating Jackson. Danny doesn’t really _fit_ , and yet he does, because he’s pack.

He doesn’t think anybody else feels it, and so he’s not sure if it’s because of his own mental issues or because he’s the alpha. Either way, he does his best to ignore it. He wasn’t sure about Boyd at first, either, but over time he became just as integral to the pack as any of them. Things will get better. But the low levels of tension aren’t good for him. He’s fidgety and on edge, though he tries to keep it to himself. It’s just a ‘let’s hang out together’ sort of night. Nobody’s really doing anything specific. Isaac and Scott are playing video games. Lydia, Erica, and Allison are doing girly stuff with makeup and giggling over sex tips from Cosmo that sound downright dangerous to Stiles. Derek is curled in a corner, sketching. Boyd is half-watching Isaac and Scott, half-reading a book for his English class. Danny has settled down about halfway between the girls and the sofa, leaning his back against it, playing on his phone but occasionally chipping in to the conversation. Stiles is glad everyone else is having a good time, but he paces and fidgets and generally drives everyone nuts.

Around eleven, he decides he desperately needs to relax. Marijuana isn’t sounding like such a bad idea, to be honest, but instead he makes himself some green tea and decides to take a bath. Derek’s bathroom has a window he can open, so he only gets mildly claustrophobic in it, and at least if he’s fidgeting in the bathroom, he won’t be bothering anyone else. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll fall asleep in the bath.

He does start to feel drowsy, which is hardly surprising, given the givens. He’s averaged about three hours of sleep per night for several days now. He stares up at the ceiling, listens to the low hum of conversation out in the other room, and sips his tea.

_Let! Me! Out of here!_

_I – I think I heard something from the trunk._

_Nah, it’s nothing. Let’s call a tow._

Stiles gasps for breath as the men’s footsteps recede, leaving him trapped inside. No one knows he’s there. No one is coming to get him. He feels the car tilt as it’s hooked up to the tow truck and starts down the road. He tries to breathe, but there’s no air. He’s suffocating, clawing at the inside of the trunk, trying desperately to get free.

“Stiles!” someone is shouting. “Stiles, damn it – ” the voice says, and then his head is unceremoniously dunked underwater. He sits bolt upright, coughing and sputtering. Then he shakes the water off his face, shakes the nightmare out of his mind, tries to focus on Derek. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I . . . fell asleep, had a bad dream,” Stiles says. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Sorry about, you know, dunking you,” Derek says. “But . . . you wouldn’t come out of it.”

Stiles shakes his head a little. “I . . . I’m okay, Derek. Let me get out and get dressed.”

Derek nods and leaves the bathroom. Stiles gets out of the now-tepid bath and vigorously dries himself off. The others glance at him and then look away uncomfortably when he exits the bathroom, so he assures them that he’s fine, he just dozed off, that’s all. He’ll make himself some more tea and try that new sleeping medication Gwen gave him and they can all go to bed.

Which is the exact opposite of what he does. There’s just no way he’s sleeping after that. He busies himself in the kitchen ‘making tea’, downs two quick mugs of coffee and an extra Adderall, then curls up in the wolf pile. Once everyone else is asleep, he gets back up and goes out into the living room. Maybe he’ll put together some research on service dogs for PTSD to give to Kolenberg.

It’s past two o’clock in the morning when he finally gives up on that and decides to go through the security camera footage again. God knows he’s done it enough times, but he just can’t get over the fact that he must be missing something. He takes it from the beginning again. The camera turns on at about one AM, when he set it up. There’s a shot of them as they go into the warehouse. About a half hour later, Stone shows up. He doesn’t look at the camera, not even briefly, so in theory he doesn’t realize it’s there. He just knocks on the warehouse door and they let him in. About five minutes later, he leaves.

Through different cameras in the neighborhood, Stiles has traced his route on a map, but it doesn’t go anywhere. He just wanders, both before and after the meeting. Stiles can’t put together why, unless he knew he was being watched and this is just to confuse them. But then, if he knew they would go for the cameras, why not just avoid them?

He decides to check the time stamp of when the pack had left the warehouse, to see if Stone had been anywhere near it, maybe watching it, at that time. But he wasn’t. They left the warehouse at one forty-three; Stone was two and a half blocks away at that point. The video continues to play as Stiles stares at it vaguely, trying to work out what it might mean.

_Do you want the bite?_

_I don’t want to be like you._

_That’s a shame. I think you would have made an interesting addition to my pack, Stiles._

Stiles jerks and shakes himself as movement on the screen jolts him out of the half-doze he had drifted into, despite all the stimulants in his system. He rubs one hand over his face as Stone enters the warehouse. Apparently, the video has looped back around and started replaying. He’s reaching out to stop it when he catches sight of the time stamp. 2:31 AM.

Stone had gone back to the warehouse after they had all left.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles exclaims, loud enough that he hears several of the pack jolt awake in the next room. “Oh my God!” He slaps the laptop shut and jogs into the bedroom. “I know where Stone is!” he declares to the wolves who are still shaking themselves out of sleep. “Motherfucker’s staying in _our fucking warehouse_!”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short, for which you all have my sincerest apologies, but I liked the place it left off too much to change it. <3

 

“What?” several people ask, and there’s a general clamor as people shift and demand answers. Danny looks somewhat disconcerted by the sudden influx of naked people, but nobody else seems to notice or care, not even Isaac, who’s typically the most modest.

“Don’t you see, it’s _perfect_ , it’s so _obvious_ ,” Stiles says. “Where are the two places we _haven’t_ been going while he’s here? The warehouse and the Hale house. Because we know _he_ knows that we might go there. He invited us to have that meeting at the damned warehouse so we would know he knew about it. And then he set up camp. Why is he just wandering aimlessly around the neighborhood before and afterwards? Because there was nowhere for him to come from and nowhere for him to go. He just had to vacate the premises long enough for us to get in and then leave. Every other time, he’s just appeared out of the walls, but this time he didn’t, because he didn’t want us thinking that he was already there. It makes perfect sense!”

“Except for the part where it’s three in the morning?” Scott says, clearly not yet on Stiles’ brilliant wavelength.

“Ignore that part,” Stiles says, flapping a hand at him. “And it’s all thanks to Peter fucking Hale!” he adds, because he knows it’s true. If he hadn’t been so dead set against going to sleep, he wouldn’t have just sat there, staring at the monitor, for upwards of forty minutes. In a strange way, he does have his own trauma to thank for this discovery.

Nobody knows what to say to that, so they decide to let it go. “Are you sure?” Derek asks.

“No way to be one hundred percent sure without going there to check it out, but it makes sense,” Stiles says. “But we’ll have to be careful. I don’t want to scare him into moving again.”

“Okay,” Derek says. The wolves are settling back down. Erica and Boyd have already flopped over and gone back to sleep. Allison is yawning and Danny is rubbing his eyes. Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles and says, “I thought you were going to try that new sleeping pill.”

“I, uh, yeah, I didn’t,” Stiles admits.

“Then go take it now and get some sleep,” Derek says.

“No way, if I take it now and it works I’ll sleep until three PM tomorrow and there’s stuff we’re going to need to do,” Stiles says, but when Derek glares at him, he adds, reluctantly, “but I will come try to sleep, at least.”

The wolves seem to decide that Stiles is not going to be allowed to get up again. When he lies down in the cushions, not only does Derek shift back and settle with his head on Stiles’ chest, but Scott is lying across his feet, Erica’s head is on his thigh, and Lydia is pressed against his other side. He rolls his eyes a little but tries to sleep anyway. He’s had way too much Adderall and caffeine, and his mind clicks away at possibilities and plans until he eventually drifts off around dawn.

He leaps out of bed less than two hours later when he wakes up and finds that most of the pack is stirring. “We’re splitting into two groups,” he says. “Scratch that, three. Allison, I want you to go talk to your dad. Explain to him that we’ve found Stone, we need to check out the warehouse, ask if he’s willing to come along and if he has any tools that might help us out. Scott, go see Deaton. I want to know if he can tell us how Stone always knows when we’re on his turf. I’m going to go talk to my dad. Need to get some advice. Hey, there’s nine of us, we split up pretty nicely into three now . . .”

Derek and Erica, of course, opt to go with Stiles. Allison takes Lydia and Isaac, as her father generally finds them inoffensive, which leaves Boyd and Danny with Scott. Scott doesn’t have his own car, but Danny does, so he drives. Stiles, of course, still has his rented Civic. “So what do you want to talk to your dad about?” Erica asks, as he backs out of the parking space.

“Specifically,” Stiles says, “I want him to find a safe place down at the station to put this bullet while we go confront Stone. Then I want him to find me a similar gun and fire it at a wall so I can bring a bullet that _looks_ like the one Stone wants but isn’t. Just in case a possible trade situation comes up and I need to string him along.”

“Gotcha,” Erica says, nodding. “Genius at work,” she adds, grinning at him.

Stiles grins back at her despite everything. For the first time since Stone’s arrival, he feels like he has the upper hand. He’s going to get that piece of shit to pay attention to him and his fake bullet trade long enough for Chris to take him out. That’s the plan, and he’s sticking to it.

“Hey, Dad?” He pushes the door to his house open and jogs inside with the other two on his heels. “You home?”

“It’s Sunday morning, where else would I be?” Stilinski asks from the kitchen, where he’s drinking coffee and doing the crossword puzzle. He’s terrible at them, and is known to simply make up answers and pretend that he doesn’t notice the inconsistencies. “You look suspiciously perky.”

“Today has been unexpectedly awesome,” Stiles says. “Ooh, hey, coffee,” he adds, going for a mug while Derek rolls his eyes. “Okay, so, here’s the sitch,” he says, and starts summing things up. He gets through the bullet and the warehouse and the surveillance camera footage and everything. He talks about the theoretical trade but doesn’t mention the idea of a sniper shot. There are some things his father doesn’t need to know; the fact that he’s aiding and abetting his son planning a murder is definitely one of them.

Sheriff Stilinski takes the bullet and says, “Not very large caliber. Probably a 9 mm of some sort. Shouldn’t be a problem to find something similar. Won’t even have to fire one; we can take one out of evidence.”

“Cool,” Stiles says, bouncing in his chair. “As long as it won’t fuck up an existing case, that is.” He takes the bullet back from his father and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans. He’ll hang onto it until they get somewhere he can put it. “Can we use your safe at the office?”

“Sure,” Stilinski says. He rises to his feet but then stumbles suddenly. Derek, who never sat down, grabs him before he can fall.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, shooting upright.

“Yeah, I just – nngh!” Stilinski lets out a cry of pain and sags against Derek.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” Stiles asks, his voice rising in panic. “Is – is it your chest? What about your left shoulder – ” This is it, then, the moment he’s been dreading ever since he was old enough to understand what ‘cholesterol’ was –

“No, it’s – ” Stilinski manages to choke the words out. “I just _hurt_ – ”

Derek eases him down onto the floor, and Stilinski doubles over, curling up a little. “Hurt where?” Derek asks, in that calm, flat tone he gets when he’s extremely worried. “Talk to us.”

“My – my head and my stomach and – ” Stilinski breaks off into another groan.

Stiles grabs his phone and dials 911. He gets a busy signal. This makes him blink, startled out of his panic. He didn’t know you _could_ get a busy signal at 911. He hangs up and tries again. Same result. He’s about to tell Erica to try her phone when his own rings with an incoming call. He looks down and sees that it’s Allison, and grabs it. “Are you okay?”

“I am, but, but my dad, something’s wrong with him,” Allison says, breathless with fear. “My mom, too. She just collapsed. Dad’s doing a little better, but he says he feels like he’s being stabbed with hot pokers all over and I – ”

Stiles’ phone beeps to let him know that someone else is trying to call him. He knows without even looking that it has to be Scott. “Allison, I need you to take a deep breath,” he says. “Something’s going on, obviously, something magical and bad. Scott’s calling me and I need to talk to him to see if I can get Deaton on the line. Make your parents as comfortable as you can and then haul ass back to my place.”

Allison agrees, tearful but in control. Stiles jabs the screen of his phone to accept Scott’s call. “What’s going on?” he asks, scrambling for the bag of mountain ash he’s been keeping in his backpack. Derek is still holding onto his father, bracing him as he struggles not to cry out.

“Something’s wrong over here,” Scott says. “Deaton’s okay, but there was this couple here, their dog got hit by a car and they called him so he came in, and he had just finished surgery and was talking to them when we got here. But then all of a sudden, they just collapsed. He says there’s some heavy duty magic going around. They’re okay, he put them in that copper circle in his basement, but he says Stone must be casting some huge magical spell.”

“Put him on,” Stiles says, and moments later Deaton is on the phone. “What can we do?”

“I don’t know.” Deaton sounds shaken. “Stiles, I don’t – I don’t understand how he’s doing this. A spell of this magnitude – he shouldn’t be capable of it.”

“Is he just tossing it out like a fishing net?” Stiles asks. “And we’re okay because we’ve got the protection charms? Because I would understand if it was just my dad and Allison’s dad, he knows who we are so theoretically he could target people close to us, but some random people who happened to be in your office? Could it be targeted by space, or is it going to affect everyone in town?”

“I’m not sure,” Deaton says.

Stiles grits his teeth. “Are you sure of anything?” he asks.

“Only that, in order to do this, there must be a large power source,” Deaton says. “This isn’t the kind of spell he could do on his own.”

“Like, something he’s using as a battery,” Stiles says, and Deaton confirms. “I know where he is. If we go there, can you get us inside without him knowing the instant we set foot there?”

“Yes,” Deaton says. “That I can do.”

“Okay. Put Scott on.” Stiles realizes that he’s ordering Deaton around like he’s a wayward wolf cub, and is about to apologize when Scott’s voice comes back on. “Take Deaton and get to the warehouse. We’ll meet you at the corner of ninth and Carson street and converge from there.”

“Okay,” Scott says, and hangs up.

“Call Allison,” Stiles snaps to Erica. “Tell her where to meet us. Derek, get my dad into the living room. I’m going to put him in mountain ash.”

“No.” Stilinski grits his teeth and shoves his way up to his knees. “I’m going with you.”

“Dad, you can’t – ”

“There’s nothing physically wrong with me,” his father says. “I can handle some pain. The last year and a half, every time I turn around, you’re going into danger without me. Not this time. I’m going with you whether you like it or not.”

Stiles swallows, but then gives a jerky nod. He would feel the same way if he were in his father’s shoes, so he can’t exactly argue; if for no other reason, he doesn’t have time. “Derek, help him,” he says, and Derek nods and gives the sheriff something to lean on. “Dad, we’re taking your car. I have a feeling it might be messy out there.”

His feeling is absolutely correct. The spell hit suddenly, and the effects are everywhere they go. They see cars that have skidded off the road or pulled over, a woman who was walking her dog who has curled up on the sidewalk while the dog anxiously licks her face, a group of children who had been outside playing hopscotch crying in a driveway.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Stiles snarls, punching the steering wheel. “How the fuck did he do this?”

“What did Deaton say?” Derek asks.

Stiles gives him the gist of it. “And that matches up with what I’ve read, I mean, it’s one thing to do little voodoo dolls or mess with my brake lines, but fuck, something like _this_? Not only would it be _huge_ on a representational scale – which again means that the warehouse is the most likely place for him to be, fuck, nobody ever goes there – but he can’t just power it with a wave of his hand. _Nobody_ has this much power.”

“What can you use as a, you know, battery?” Erica asks.

“I’ve got no clue, and I didn’t have time to ask Deaton.”

Stiles burns rubber all the way there, lights and sirens wailing, narrowly avoiding three accidents. His father is clearly gritting his teeth in the passenger’s seat. Stiles can see his fists clenching, both against the pain and Stiles’ driving. But he isn’t the only one who’s decided to come along despite the factors that weigh against it: Allison is standing on the corner with an arm around her father’s waist, keeping Chris on his feet. Stiles pulls the cruiser up to the curb and they unload. He gives Chris a brisk nod. “How’re you doing?”

“I’ve had worse,” Chris grinds out, “but not very often.”

“How’s your mom?” Stiles asks Allison.

She grimaces a little. “She wanted to come, too, but . . . she’s not really a fighter, you know?”

Despite the situation, Stiles almost cracks a grin. He can almost _hear_ Victoria quoting Robin Hood. ‘I’ve given birth to eight babies; don’t you talk to me about gettin’ hurt!’ He clears his throat and hastens onward. “Have we heard from anyone else?”

“My mom called me to see if I was okay,” Erica says, much subdued from her normal fiery self. “She . . . she’s okay, but she’s scared.”

Lydia and Isaac haven’t heard from anybody, and Derek has no one to hear from, so that’s it for the time being. Stiles sends Erica to try to get a look in the warehouse, mainly to distract her and give her something to focus on. But she comes back saying the windows have all been blacked out. Scott shows up with Deaton and the others a minute later.

“Check in with your mom?” he asks Scott.

He nods. “Yeah, fuck, she’s on shift at the ER today and she says it’s a fucking madhouse, and of course all the doctors and nurses are in as much pain as everyone else but still trying to do their jobs.”

“Jackson called, too,” Danny says, his tanned skin paler than usual. “Freaking out because his parents are affected. He’s okay. He was wearing the charm.”

Stiles bites back the urge to say he really wishes he’d thought about getting a charm for his own father before getting one for Jackson, but there’s no use worrying about it now. “Okay,” he says, and turns to Deaton. “Get us in.”

Deaton lets out a breath and nods. Then he says, “I need a hair from each person going in.”

Stiles looks at his father and Chris. “I suppose there’s no chance I can convince the two of you to wait out here?” he says, and they give him identical ‘I don’t think so’ looks. “Okay then. Give the man a hair.”

Deaton holds out a little Zip-lock bag, and one by one, everyone present puts a hair inside. He kneels down with a piece of chalk and draws a circle around the bag and several symbols. Then he holds his hands over it with his eyes closed for what feels like an eternity to Stiles. After which he opens his eyes and says, “That should keep us under any magical radar he’s set up. Of course, if we walk in and he’s standing right there, it won’t help us.”

“Good enough,” Stiles says. “But he’s almost guaranteed to be there, right? To be working the spell? This isn’t exactly a set-up-and-walk-away sort of thing.”

“It could be,” Deaton says. “Depending on what’s powering it. He can’t be powering it himself. If he’s got it hooked up to some kind of magical generator, then theoretically, yes, he could walk away.”

“But he’ll know we’re coming,” Allison says, anxiously gripping her bow. “He’ll be waiting for us.”

“Right, but he might not be waiting inside,” Chris points out. “Not if he’s relying on his magic to tell us when we get there.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Only one way to find out,” he says, and starts purposefully towards the warehouse. The others fan out behind him. Derek is still supporting Sheriff Stilinski, and Allison and Lydia are on either side of Chris, helping him hobble along. Deaton is unaffected by the magic; Stiles presumes that he has protection charms of his own that have nothing to do with Stone.

The warehouse looks nothing like the last time he saw it. Everything has been pushed aside – boxes, shelving units, even the old subway car. The interior of the warehouse has been left completely bare of what it had once contained. Instead, there’s a massive web of red and black thread inside, like the one that Stone had used to interrupt the pack bond but a hundred times larger. The threads are linked and tangled, spanning all four walls, always red and black twined together. And the walls themselves are covered with photographs. They’ve clearly been taken all over town. A snapshot of the inside of the Starbucks. The waiting line at the DMV. The stands at a lacrosse game.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes out. “He’s been working on this for months . . .”

There are undoubtedly a few people he’s missed, but from the number of photographs, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if he had ninety-eight percent of Beacon Hills linked into this spell. He sees both his father and Chris Argent in a photograph from the lacrosse game. They’ve clearly just scored; Sheriff Stilinski is standing with his fist thrust in the air. Melissa McCall is in the same picture. He sees Erica’s parents in a restaurant. Jackson’s dad as he gets out of his car in a grocery store parking lot. Most of his classmates are in there somewhere. In some of the pictures, people are wearing tank tops and shorts. Stone has been taking pictures since the day he arrived in town.

As the threads move from the photographs on the walls to the center of the web, they start to weave together more densely. By the time they reach the center, they’re as thick as a rope, braiding together into one circle that’s around a man’s neck, tied like a noose. It’s tight enough that it’s pressed against his skin – but more than that, it seems to be attached to him, digging into his skin and burrowing there. The veins in his neck are maroon where the threads are drawing out the life of the man inside and using that energy to spread pain and pandemonium throughout the city.

“My God,” Deaton says, seeing the center of the web. “This . . . this is an abomination. How could he . . .”

The others are outright staring. It’s only Chris who has to narrow his eyes and say, “Who is that?”

But Stiles knows, of course he knows, he’s the one who told Stone who to use, who he hates most. It’s Adrian Harris.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has everyone recovered from the season 3 premiere? Hopefully my big finale won't disappoint. ^___^

 

Stiles turns and looks at Deaton. “Talk to me. What do we do?”

Deaton is just staring, his eyes so wide that they look almost comical in his face. “I don’t – ”

“Can we cut the threads?” Allison asks briskly. She’s already focused on the picture that contains her father and Sheriff Stilinski, and has a knife at the ready.

“No,” Deaton says. “There’d be backlash. I’m not sure what would happen.”

Stiles points to Harris, sitting in the center of the circle, and says, “How is that working?”

“It’s clearly drawing on his life force to power the spell,” Deaton says. “I don’t know how he would have hooked it up to do that, but . . . there’s no other explanation for what’s going on.”

“Fuck it.” Stiles goes to his hands and knees and starts crawling underneath the threads. He doesn’t want to touch them if he can help it. When he gets over next to Harris, there’s really only one space he can use to stand up in, a small gap in the threads that’s large enough for him. Derek has shifted, but even in his wolf form, he’s too tall to stand underneath the threads. He paces around on the outside of the web, snarling. Stiles reaches out to try to pull the noose off Harris. The teacher’s eyes flicker open and he focuses on Stiles, uncomprehending.

“What . . . what’s going on?” he asks, his voice cracking and wavering. “What’s happening?”

“Quiet a minute,” Stiles says, as he grips the thickest braid of thread where it knots into the noose. Something like an electric shock goes up his arms. He almost stumbles, ripping his hands free as the threads try to burrow into them. “Jesus!”

“What?” his father shouts. “What is it?”

“When I touched it, it tried to grab hold of me!” Stiles calls back. The others are about twenty feet away, but it feels like a mile, with a sea of red thread between them.

“It’s searching for more energy,” Deaton explains. “Be careful not to touch the threads! Even if you could, I don’t think you’d be able to pull it off him. It’s got its hooks in him too deep!”

“So we can’t cut the threads, can’t get Harris free,” Stiles says. “It’s self-sustaining, so even if we could find Stone and kill him, it wouldn’t stop. Fuck! There must be some way to stop it!” He stops as a horrible thought occurs to him. “If . . . if it’s powered by Harris’ life force, then . . .”

He swivels to stare at Deaton. Deaton just stares back for a minute, then nods. “Yes. Killing him is probably the only way to end the spell.”

Stiles starts to laugh, hysteria taking over. It’s too perfect. All he needs to do to save Beacon Hills is kill the man who he hates most. And why not? Harris has made his life miserable. Harris helped kill Derek’s family. He had just said to Gwen less than a week previous that he just wanted Harris to go away. Well, this would certainly fit the bill. With Harris dead, nobody would pursue his court case. There’s no reason he _shouldn’t_ kill Harris, and at least half a dozen that he _should_. Does Stone think that this will stop him?

“Stiles,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Stiles, you can’t . . .” But even his protests are weakened by the fact that he’s white as a sheet, that Scott and Isaac are now holding him up. He can barely stand on his own.

“Hey, Stone!” Stiles shouts at the rafters. He knows Stone is there, somewhere, watching him. “Is this the purity of a soul on the edge? Do you think I’ll flinch at putting a bullet in this miserable waste of space? Is that how you’re going to beat me?” No reply comes, of course, but Stiles wasn’t expecting one. He pulls out his .38 and lets out a breath. Harris just stares up at him, tears starting down his cheeks.

“You . . . you won’t actually . . .” the teacher says. His voice rises in panic. “I don’t understand, what’s going on? What’s happening to me?!”

“Did you happen to meet kind of an average-looking guy today?” Stiles asks, checking to make sure a bullet is chambered. “Well, he put some kind of magical whammy on you, and now your life is powering this spell that’s slowly killing everyone in Beacon Hills. And the only way we can stop it is to kill you.”

“But – no!” Harris chokes the word out. “There has to be another way!”

“There isn’t always another way,” Stiles says. “Not in my world.”

“You can’t take it off me?” Harris asks desperately.

“Maybe if we had a couple of days, we could figure it out,” Stiles says, “but we don’t have time. We don’t know what this spell is going to do. People could die. The pain could drive them crazy. Or give them heart attacks or something. There’s no fucking _time_.”

“There has to be _something_!” Harris screams.

“Can we switch it out with some other power source?” Sheriff Stilinski asks Deaton. “Something that would burn out quickly?”

“If there’s a way, I don’t know how,” Deaton says. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. The spell will eventually end, maybe in a few hours, when . . . when Harris runs out of energy, but . . .”

“But why wait,” Chris says grimly, “if he’s going to die anyway.”

Deaton merely nods.

“What if we surrounded the whole building with mountain ash?” Scott suggests. “That would keep people from outside being affected, right?”

“Putting a mountain ash circle around a spell that’s already in progress like this is like, like putting Mentos in a bottle of Coke and then screwing the lid back on. It’ll bottle up and the pressure will just make it explode.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and presses the barrel of his gun against Harris’ temple. But at the last minute he makes the mistake of looking at Harris’ face. The mixture of confusion, desperation, and stark terror makes his stomach churn. Harris is a bastard, it’s true, it can’t be denied, but he wasn’t involved in this. He doesn’t deserve this; _nobody_ deserves this. He’s just an innocent pawn. There are reasons to kill him, maybe even good reasons, but the reasons aren’t good enough. “Oh, Jesus,” Stiles breathes out. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I can.”

Harris lets out a harsh sob of relief. Stiles looks over at his pack helplessly, hands shaking as he lowers the gun. It would solve all his problems. But he can’t do it. He’s not sure why he can’t do it, but he can’t.

“We’ve got to do _something_ ,” Allison says, as her father’s knees buckle and she starts to lower him to the ground, her voice shrill with panic.

Stiles looks at the threads. He looks at his father. Then he says, “No, I . . . I think I . . .”

Derek sees what he’s planning to do an instant before he does it, and shouts, “Stiles, no!”

But it’s too late; Stiles had grabbed the noose with both hands. The energy from the threads flares out and they burrow into his skin, flooding his body with pain easily as bad as he’s had from wolfsbane poisoning and car accidents. He lets out a gasp but then grits his teeth, pulling on the thread, on the magic, on the pain. Pulling it out of Harris and into himself. “Like you said, Dad,” he says, choking out the words. “Just switch out the power source.”

The magic much prefers his alpha/sorcerer’s soul to Harris’ boring ordinary one. It abandons the teacher completely, wrapping around Stiles, nearly strangling him. He has to remember how to breathe. A moment later, Harris is just sitting there, freed, unmarked, uninjured. He looks up at Stiles with a bewildered expression on his face. Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps sideways, out of the chair.

“Someone get him out of here,” Stiles yells. He sees Lydia and Erica crawling underneath the thread, grabbing Harris and dragging him away. “It’s okay,” he says, with confidence that he in no way feels. “I’ve got this.”

Because he’s on the inside of the spell now; he can feel it, understand it. Magic isn’t his specialty, sure, but this magic is using his own energy, and that’s something he thinks he can control. He draws in a breath and pictures pulling the magic along with it. The feeling of jittery pain intensifies, but he’s handling it, he’s all right. Another breath.

“What – what’s he doing?” Sheriff Stilinski sounds dazed. Chris is getting back to his feet.

It’s Deaton who says, “He’s trying to pull the magic back through the web. Out of the photographs and therefore out of the people. Is it working?”

“Yes, I – I feel okay now,” Stilinski says. He looks over at Stiles and shouts, “What the hell, do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“Little bit,” Stiles responds. Another breath. He pulls it in, tries to pack it away. It flares out and tries to escape his control. He can see the strands of thread starting to glow with the power, sees the way that light is seeping out of the photographs and back towards the center of the web. “Can’t – can’t hold it long – ” he gasps.

“Hold on!” Deaton shouts. He takes a bag out of his jacket pocket and comes up with two entire handfuls of mountain ash. He just _throws_ it into the air like it’s confetti, but rather than coming down in a shower, it falls in a very specific pattern. It goes over Stiles’ head and lands around him in a perfect circle.

Only a few moments after it’s touched the ground, Stiles loses control of the magic. He goes to his knees as it whirls and howls around him. But it’s contained now. The threads inside the circle of ash whip wildly, but outside they’re dark, dormant. “Cut the threads!” Deaton shouts. “Now, while the power is contained!”

Chris pulls out what looks like an entire butcher’s collections of knives from the inside of his coat and tosses them to the nearest wolves. Allison has one of her own. They start frantically sawing away at the threads, which fall limp to the floor in their wake. Derek runs through a now empty section of the warehouse, over to where Stiles is trapped in the circle. “What are you doing?” he shouts. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I got this,” Stiles pants. “I got this.”

“You don’t, you don’t have anything, you stupid, self-sacrificing son of a bitch – ”

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Ravinder told me . . . that Trevor had . . . received the alpha power from his . . . dying alpha. So . . . I want you . . . to be alpha after me. Okay? You . . . you’re going to be awesome.” He meets Derek’s gaze, sees the way that Derek has just _frozen_ at these words, the desperate denial in his gaze. “But . . . you can follow me, if you want. Okay? Just . . . take care of the pack first. I know . . . I know that you will. It’s going to be okay.”

“No!” Derek lunges forward, but Boyd and Isaac tackle him and pin him to the ground. They hold him down firmly, despite the fact that Isaac is letting out little wolf whines and Boyd is fighting not to shift. Stiles can hear all the wolves making those frantic whimpering noises, can feel their distress and terror flooding down their bond. But all of it is dwarfed compared to what he feels from his lupa. “No, Stiles! Don’t you dare die on me, do you hear me? Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Don’t break the circle!” Deaton shouts. “Now that the threads are cut, the power could level the whole building!”

“Then do something!” Derek screams at him. “You useless bastard, just fucking _do something_! This whole time you’ve just been sitting on your ass talking about how your hands are tied, how can you do that now? You haven’t given us any help; you haven’t given us anything!”

But of course, Stiles realizes, Deaton has given him something.

“Oh shit,” he breathes out, and fishes the bullet out of his pocket. “I have a feeling that this is going to hurt like hell,” he adds, and Derek’s gaze flickers over to him as he starts wrapping loose threads around the bullet. He doesn’t know how this will work. He doesn’t _need_ to know how it will work. He just has to _believe_ it will work – and he does believe that, because there’s no way he’s going to die in this circle, no way he’s going to leave Derek, no way he’s going to lose his pack, no way he’s going to die to save _Harris_ –

And he slams both hands down on top of the bullet and lets all that power go.

The sensation is completely unbelievable.

Magic, Deaton has told him, is highly addictive. It’s an incredible rush. He had believed him, had seen how it had affected Jackson, but had never stopped to think about how or why. But this, this feeling, is a hundred times better than anything he could have imagined. This _power_ flowing through him makes him feel like the strongest person in the world. It’s something better than ecstasy, better than bliss. It makes him feel invincible, untouchable, and for the first time in years, maybe in forever, Stiles is completely and utterly without fear.

Then it’s gone, and Stiles blacks out. He comes to when he feels Derek shaking him. He knows it’s Derek because tears are splashing down onto his face. That’s okay. He won’t tell anyone. “Holy crap,” he mumbles. “That was fucking _awesome_.”

“What just happened?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, and there’s a note of panic in his voice.

Deaton, however, has regained his composure. “Stiles, take a sip of this,” he says, and then something is being pressed against Stiles’ mouth. He drinks obediently. He can hear somebody screaming; it’s kind of far away and muffled and he’s not sure who it is. He hopes they calm down soon. It’s shrill and annoying. Derek is helping him sit up, cradling Stiles against his shoulder.

Whatever Deaton gives him, it’s good. Kind of warm and spicy, and it burns all the way down. He’s able to sit up and open his eyes. “Good shit,” he says.

“A little concoction of my own,” Deaton says. “It’ll keep you on your feet for the next – here, take another swallow – hour or so. After that, you’re going to want to be somewhere with a lot of food and a lot of blankets. You’re going to eat everything in sight and then you’re going to sleep.”

Stiles gives a weak little laugh. “Sounds just like when I miss a dose of Adderall.”

Deaton looks at Derek and Sheriff Stilinski and says, “Don’t be alarmed if he sleeps a couple days straight. That’d be normal, given the amount of magic he just channeled. Anything up to forty-eight hours wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“What is that fucking noise?” Derek asks, as he helps Stiles to his feet and looks around the warehouse.

Quietly, Deaton says, “It’s Stone. Stiles . . . reflected the spell back onto him. Or channeled it back into him, I suppose, would be a more accurate way of putting it.”

Stilinski lets out a breath. “Let’s go find him, then.”

It doesn’t take long. Stone is crouched in the corner of the warehouse behind where he’s stashed all the shelving units and crates that used to be scattered all over the place. He’s hugging his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth, occasionally banging his forehead into the wall. When they approach, he looks up and lets out a mad little giggle. It turns quickly into another scream, and he slams his face into the wall again.

“What the fuck . . .” Derek breathes out.

Deaton puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezes. “That spell had enough pain and suffering to incapacitate an entire city of thousands of people. Stiles put it all right back into one. There’s no . . . no coming back from something like that.”

Stiles swallows hard as Stone starts to laugh again. It’s a terrible, awful sound, because he can hear the agony underneath. There’s blood underneath his fingernails from where he’s started to claw at his own arms and face. The laugh dissolves into a moan, then a strangled sob. Stiles can’t take his eyes off him. Not until he hears Chris behind him, the unmistakable noise of the hunter chambering a round. Then he manages to look away. “Let me.”

“Stiles, no – ” Sheriff Stilinski says.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “This is mine to do. I’m the one who did this to him. I should be the one to take care of it.”

Chris studies him for a long moment with narrowed eyes. Then he nods and extends his pistol by the grip. “Use mine,” he says. “That way, on the extremely unlikely chance his body is ever found, it won’t come back to you.”

Stiles nods and accepts the gun. It’s heavier than his own, or at least it feels heavier. He swallows hard. “Don’t – Dad, don’t watch, okay? I don’t want you to see this.”

“Stiles, I don’t – ” Stilinski starts, but then Chris has him by the shoulders and is steering him away. Stilinski casts one look over his shoulder before he’s around the corner and out of sight. The rest of the pack trails after him, knowing that Stiles doesn’t need to be stared at. Only Deaton and Derek remain.

Deaton hesitates, then says, “You’re doing the right thing, Stiles,” before he, too, turns and walks away. Stiles lets out a breath and raises the gun. Stone doesn’t even seem to see it. He’s still staring at the wall, letting out hysterical little giggles, rocking back and forth. Stiles puts the muzzle of the gun right at the nape of Stone’s neck, and the sorcerer never reacts. Stiles can feel his hands trembling. His arms feel weak and watery.

Then Derek is there, his chest pressed against Stiles’ back, hands wrapped around Stiles’ wrists, bracing him, supporting him. Stiles leans into him a little and lets Derek hold him up, and his shaking eases, and then stops. He closes his eyes for a moment, but just a moment, and then he opens them and pulls the trigger.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is way longer than usual because I had a lot to put in it but didn’t really want the wrap-up to go on more than a chapter. That should make up for how short the last two chapters were. ^_^

 

Chris stays behind to clean up. Deaton takes charge of Harris and promises to make sure he’s all right and see him home safe. Sheriff Stilinski has approximately a hundred and one things to attend to, because the city is in complete chaos. He doesn’t even feel like he can take the time to drop Stiles and the others off at home, so they cram into Danny and Allison’s cars.

By the time they get home, the hunger is starting to set in. There’s hardly anything to eat in the house, because he hasn’t really been home or cooked in days if not weeks. Under normal circumstances, they would order something or swing by the grocery store, but everyone agrees that it’s best to lay low until the chaos has subsided.

But Stiles isn’t feeling particularly picky. He just starts eating everything he can lay his hands on. There’s cheese and crackers, and peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread, canned stew, powdered miniature donuts, hard-boiled eggs. He eats everything that they put in front of him until he almost makes himself sick. Then Derek makes him stop, even though he’s still complaining of being hungry. He staggers upstairs, falls face-first onto his mattress, and passes out.

For the next two days, he sleeps like the dead. No nightmares, no dreams at all. He wakes up periodically to shamble to the bathroom and then fill his face with more food, or so he’s later told, but he has no memory of doing it. When he finally wakes, he’s no longer hungry. His room is dim; the lights are turned off but plenty of sunlight is coming in around the edges of his curtains. Someone is talking. A mellow, woman’s voice he doesn’t recognize. “Pinkie Pie, aren’t you a little old for this?”

“Too old for free candy?” another voice replies.

Stiles blinks his eyes open and focuses on the television in his room, which is displaying animated ponies. Derek is sitting in his desk chair with his feet propped up, staring at the screen in rapt attention. Nobody else is in the room. “Hah!” Stiles says. He’s a little hoarse, but gets the point across nonetheless. “I _knew_ you actually liked this show!”

“What? Shut up!” Derek replies, flustered.

“Derek’s a brony!” Stiles sing-songs, and is completely unsurprised when he finds himself pinned to the mattress with Derek’s broad hand over his mouth. He grins up at the older man, who scowls back down at him.

Finally, Derek says, grudgingly, “Don’t tell Erica.”

Stiles nods, then sits up, as Derek releases him. He lets out a huge yawn and then stretches, one of those wonderful stretches that seems to take all morning and leaves him limp and boneless. He slumps forward against Derek’s shoulder, which is, not-so-incidentally, exactly where he wants to be. Derek wraps an arm around him, presses his face into Stiles’ hair, and just breathes. Finally, Stiles says, “Sorry about, you know, nearly dying and all.”

Derek lets him go, and glowers. Then he shakes his head a little and says, “Thanks. For . . . telling me that it would be okay to follow you.”

Now it’s Stiles who reaches out and wraps his arms around the other man, letting Derek rest his face in the crook of his neck. He debates what to say for a moment before he settles on the simplest response. “I know you.” He waits a moment, letting that sink in, and then says, “I would want you to take care of the pack. Make sure that they were going to be okay. Make any sort of, of arrangements that needed to be made. But I would never expect you to survive long after me. That’s okay. But, you know, I don’t plan to die any time soon. So it’s all good.”

Derek shakes his head a little, pulls away, and says, “Only you could come out of this mess and proclaim ‘it’s all good’.”

“Well, it is,” Stiles says. He stretches again. “Geez. What time is it? What _day_ is it?”

Derek checks his watch. “It’s about ten thirty. On Tuesday.”

“Wow, so Deaton was really right on the money. I passed out for almost forty-eight hours. Good thing he warned you, or you’d probably be a nervous wreck right now.” Stiles vigorously rubs both hands through his hair. “Geez. I need a shower. I feel like something died in my mouth. Where are the others, at school?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “School was cancelled yesterday on account of the, uh, disasters on Sunday. But back in session today. Scott managed to convince everyone that they should go.”

“Okey dokey.” Stiles looks on the nightstand where he usually puts his phone. It’s right where he normally leaves it, so he grabs it. “Gonna text everyone real quick and then go take a shower. Then . . . groceries, I’m thinking. And you can update me as to what I missed while I was sleeping.”

He taps out a quick group text to everyone in the pack, as well as his father. ‘Hey all, I am up and functional again. Gonna bake everything in sight and go buy all the groceries. Party’s at my place tonight! Someone please pick up my school work for me. See you around 3.’ Then, as a course of habit, he checks his mail. He sees he has an email from Gwen and opens it up.

‘Hello, Stiles, how are you doing? Your father called me yesterday to cancel your session today because ‘a lot happened over the weekend and you need the downtime’. I hope everything is okay. Please give me a call at your soonest convenience so we can reschedule. Gwen.’

Since she seems concerned, Stiles taps out a quick reply, keeping a keen eye out for auto-correct, which would be less hilarious when emailing his therapist. ‘Hi Gwen, all is well. The sorcerer has been dealt with and I’ve been catching up on some much needed sleep. Probably will be down for the count the next couple days, so I will call your office to set something up for next week.’ He hesitates, then adds, ‘I’m ok, better than would be expected. Have been doing my homework. Thanks for checking in.’

Derek is surreptitiously watching him type out these emails, but not interrupting. When Stiles puts his phone aside and crawls out of bed, he turns back to the television and starts the episode again. Stiles grins and ruffles his hair, which earns him a growl, before heading into the bathroom.

He takes a long, hot shower, which feels amazing after the week he’s had. Brushes his teeth, shaves away three days worth of stubble (which sadly isn’t very much; he has dreams of the day when he won’t be able to go a day without shaving and nobody will notice). He wipes the steam off the mirror and studies himself. Looks himself in the eye and just says it. “Peter’s death was not my fault.”

It feels weird, unnatural. He doesn’t really believe it. He could believe ‘Peter’s death was not _entirely_ my fault’, but disclaiming it wholesale just doesn’t seem right. He gives a little shrug. He doesn’t need to believe it right now, just say it. He’ll talk to Gwen about maybe modifying it somewhat. He suspects that will go over like a lead balloon, but he’ll give it a try.

By the time he’s dressed and actually looking like a real boy again, he hears the front door open downstairs. Derek glances up as well, as he jogs down the stairs to find his father coming in. “Oh, hey, Dad,” Stiles says, or at least that’s what he means to say; what actually comes out is, “Oh, heffgghhh,” as his father catches him in one of those back-bruising hugs. Stiles wraps his arms around his father’s shoulders and hugs back just as hard.

“Never, ever, _ever_ do that again,” Stilinski says, his voice a little rough.

“Got no plans to,” Stiles says. “Trust me. Ever. No plans.”

“Good.” After another squeeze, his father lets him go. “I’m serious, kid. We need to find a way to put an end to this ‘your life is on the line’ sort of situation.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Stiles says. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’ve been at work for about the last two days straight,” Sheriff Stilinski says, but then admits, “but yeah, I just came home to check on you when I got your text. I have a lot of things I need to do. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yup. Bring your appetite.”

Stilinski laughs and tousles his son’s hair. “Will do. See you later.”

Stiles waves as his father leaves, then grabs his shoes. His phone chimes and he looks down to see he’s gotten a reply from Gwen. ‘I’m glad things are going well and will be looking forward to seeing you. I’m proud of you for doing your homework. I know that it isn’t easy.’ He makes a gagging face at his phone, pretends that absolutely no warm and fuzzy feelings were a result of this email, and tucks the phone away. “God, how sad is it that I’m actually looking forward to a trip to the grocery store. I don’t think I’ve been there in weeks.”

“Pretty sad,” Derek agrees, and gives him a close look. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Stiles says, and hesitates. “Actually, _really_ good. Kind of . . . giddy. I mean . . . intellectually, I knew how much pressure I was under, but . . . Stone being out of the picture kind of makes me want to run around in the forest screaming my head off for joy, you know?”

Derek nods a little. “And . . . what happened to him . . . you’re okay with that?”

“Stone wasn’t like Peter,” Stiles says. “Maybe he had his reasons to be screwed up from way back when, but they had nothing to do with me. He came here, he picked a fight with me specifically for no reason other than to get his jollies, and he refused to back off when I told him what could happen.” He smiles a thin little smile. “Like Gerard said, people need to accept the consequences for their actions. He tried to kill us; I killed him first. I can’t really say that I have any regrets on that score.”

“Good,” Derek says. He wraps an arm around Stiles and says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” Stiles says.

“Why didn’t you kill Harris?”

Stiles chews on his lower lip for a minute before he just shakes his head and says, “I couldn’t. It wasn’t because I like the guy, but . . . I couldn’t just kill an unarmed, helpless, uninvolved civilian. I just _couldn’t_.”

Derek considers this for a minute and then almost smiles. “That’s why you won.”

“How do you figure?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“Because that was Stone’s play. To use the spell to force you to kill Harris, and then you would have been arrested for murder and your father’s career would have been ruined. You were using your own gun, Stiles. In a warehouse that I own. On a guy that it was public knowledge you had a problem with.” Derek shakes his head a little. “I’m not sure how he would have kept us from disposing the body, but I’m sure he had something in place for it. That was his play and you didn’t even see it. You ruined his finale just by being good. And that’s why he never saw it coming. Because he never realized you were good. In here.” Derek presses his hand against Stiles’ chest. “He thought you were like him. But you aren’t. So you won.”

“Shit.” Stiles feels almost dizzy with this revelation. “You’re right. I didn’t think of that at all. I thought it was some . . . moral thing.”

“Well,” Derek says, “in a way, it was.”

They probably could have continued to talk about that for the rest of the day, but then Stiles’ stomach lets out a growl. He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Saving the world is hard work,” he says. “Groceries?”

“Groceries,” Derek agrees. “You want me to shift?”

“Nah. I’m gonna need your wallet more than I need your moral support,” Stiles says, and laughs. “And you can tell me what I’ve missed.”

They take Derek’s car, and on the way to the store, Derek gives him an update. Things have been rather chaotic in Beacon Hills for the last forty-eight hours, but they seem to be settling down now. Everyone seems to have settled on the theory that some extremely virulent virus that caused generalized pain, fatigue, and fever, was responsible for the events on Sunday. Stiles gives Derek a somewhat incredulous look at this, and Derek shrugs, as if to say ‘mundane humans, what can you do?’

It does make a certain amount of sense, however. Deaton has been going through the remnants of the spell and disposing of the photographs. It turns out that there was a variance in severity, because many people were in the photographs more than once. Since Stone’s method of obtaining them was merely to go to places where people routinely gather and snap random shots, it was inevitable that some would be duplicates. Deaton says that so far he’s found Sheriff Stilinski in six photographs, which would explain why he was so badly affected, and Chris Argent in four. But some people are only in one or two. He’s only found Melissa McCall once, which makes sense, given that she rarely goes anywhere besides home and the hospital, both of which would be difficult places to photograph her in. Lydia’s mother was also only in one, since she’s out of town so much, and Lydia says she only had a mild headache that day and didn’t even know something else was going on.

The major problem was traffic, followed up by the tied up 911 network and the emergency room, where fights had started to break out due to slow service. Sheriff Stilinski called in every officer available once the spell had been lifted and started getting the mess cleared up. As it turns out, he’s being lauded as a local hero, working tirelessly to clean up the aftermath. Harris’ lawsuit seems to have been completely forgotten. Speaking of Harris, Derek relates that Deaton says physically he seems fine, although mentally he “isn’t doing as well as he could be”. Deaton has been keeping an eye on his recovery.

There were only a few fatalities, most of them elderly people who probably weren’t going to live much longer in any case, although there were two suicides that day, which is more than Beacon Hills normally sees in six months. There’s no way to prove it was related, but it is extremely suspicious. Either way, there isn’t much they can do about it now.

Stiles knows that there’s going to be a lot to do in the next few days, but he’s content to let his father handle most of it. It’s adult stuff, out of his sphere of influence. Not his division.

“Did you know,” he says suddenly, as they enter the grocery store, “that the original phrase ‘not my problem’ comes from a Polish expression that actually translates literally to, ‘not my circus, not my monkey’?”

There’s a moment of silence while Derek gives him that ‘is this kid for real?’ expression that Stiles loves so much. “Uh huh,” he says.

“I should start saying that. Incorporate that phrase into my vocabulary. Because – oh hey, ham is on sale, let’s get a ham,” Stiles says, thinking that it’s early enough that he can smoke it on the grill, which would be awesome, and hams are good to feed a lot of people. He’s not sure how many people will be there for dinner. Derek says that after things had calmed down on Sunday, all of the pack had gone to their respective homes. Everyone was glad to actually have some time to spend with their families for once. They had slept on their own and spent Monday at home, beyond occasional visits to check in on Stiles. It’s definitely a relief to be able to put things back to normal. But he suspects that they may have guests outside of the actual pack that evening.

So he buys enough food to feed an army, _real_ food like vegetables and hams and fresh-baked rolls that smell really good. He spends the day puttering around the house, baking cookies and playing video games and generally enjoying the lack of world-ending stress that’s been his life lately. The others arrive back at the Stilinski house in twos and threes. There are hugs and snuggles and several lectures on why he is stupid and should not ever do things that might get him killed again, all of which he accepts with a smile. Then Lydia gives him his make-up work. Missing a day of school is not a big deal; there are still dozens of kids out sick. Stiles sits down with the schoolwork while the wolves set upon the almond cookies he made.

He’s not wrong about dinner that night, either. Melissa McCall comes over, and so do Erica’s parents. But there’s plenty of food for everyone. Stiles sets it up buffet style, with the ham and the rolls and a ton of chopped vegetables, plus brownies for dessert. Everyone stuffs themselves silly. They stay up too late watching movies and fall asleep in a pile in the living room. Stiles has one nightmare, but calms down easily enough, and falls back to sleep afterwards, curled up with his arms around Derek.

The next day is a normal day. He gets up, he goes to school, he slogs through classes with Derek at his side in his little vest. Over lunch, he has a long conversation with his pack about something he feels he needs to do. Some of them are a little skeptical at first, but by the end he’s gotten them all to agree. So after school, Derek goes to his studio for a bit and Stiles goes down to the clinic to see Dr. Deaton.

Surprisingly, he’s greeted by Jackson. The teenager scowls as he waves him into the back, where he’s clearly been exercising the dogs in boarding. When Stiles asks, he says, “Your dad and my dad set it all up. It’s like some kind of ‘community service’. Volunteering at the animal shelter slash vet clinic. It’s so Deaton can work with me, you know, on . . .”

“Not sucking at life?” Stiles asks brightly. Jackson just gives him a withering look. Stiles feels no shame. “Good luck with that, buddy.”

“Hey,” Jackson says, as Stiles starts into Deaton’s office. He shifts uncomfortably, then says, “Look, uh . . . will you tell Lydia . . .”

“No,” Stiles says. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “If you want to apologize to Lydia, do it to her face, and accept whatever forgiveness she does or does not offer. I’m not going to carry a message for you. That’s one thing you’re going to have to balls up and do yourself.”

Jackson looks away, his jaw trembling. “Okay,” he says, then adds, somewhat sullenly, “Thanks.”

Stiles just nods and continues on his way. Dr. Deaton looks up and gives him a smile that he’s not entirely sure he deserves. “How can I help you, Stiles?”

“Sorry about, you know . . .” Stiles says.

“It’s fine,” Deaton says. “Like I told you. No matter what you chose to do with the bullet, I wouldn’t hold it against you. And I can’t argue the fact that he backed you into a corner. You were protecting your family and your pack. So there’s no hard feelings. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

“Not exactly,” Stiles says. He lets out a breath. Despite having convinced the entire pack over lunch, he’s still not one hundred percent sure he wants to do this. “I want you to strip me of my magic.”

Deaton’s eyebrows go up. “Why?”

“Because . . .” Stiles searches for the words. “Because it was _amazing_ ,” he finally says. “Because I can see how I could get addicted to it so, so easily. I spend a lot of time scared, and the magic makes me feel powerful, even though I’ve got no real clue what I’m doing with it. It made me feel invincible. But Stone is proof that I wouldn’t be. And I’d tell myself I wouldn’t use it. Only in emergencies. For the best intentions. But . . . when you have that kind of power, the definition of ‘emergency’ can become pretty freakin’ fluid. I would mean the best. But . . . it would take me over. The way it did Stone, and Jackson. I think it’s better just to cut off that option now. And if someday I’m in some situation where magic could have saved me or my pack and I don’t have it, I’ll just have to deal with that. Because I don’t want to lose my pack. But I don’t want them to lose me, either.”

“We could just bind it,” Deaton suggests.

“I’d find some way to get it back, if I needed to, and I would tell myself I needed to,” Stiles says. “No. It’s better this way. Trust me, Dr. Deaton – I _know_ myself. And it’s better to do this now and make a clean break with it.”

“If you’re sure,” Deaton says.

Stiles nodded. “I am.”

“Do you mind coming downstairs?” Deaton asks.

“I’ll handle it,” Stiles says. “Now that I’m not perpetually freaked out about everything, it won’t be as bad.”

It is still pretty bad, though, and he spends most of the time inside Deaton’s copper circle with his eyes shut, legs folded underneath himself, using the deep breathing techniques he learned long ago to keep himself calm. It takes about an hour. Deaton draws things with chalk and mutters under his breath and generally does magicky things that Stiles doesn’t recognize.

“I don’t feel any different,” he says, when Deaton says he’s finished.

“Magic wasn’t really an integral part of your life,” Deaton says. “You’ve only used it a few times. You might be a little tired, but you shouldn’t really feel any adverse effects.”

“Okey dokey.” Stiles gets to his feet and can’t get up the little ladder out of the cellar fast enough. “Thanks for all your help,” he says, as Deaton emerges behind him. He sees the veterinarian giving him a funny look and says, “What?”

“Nothing, really,” Deaton says. “I’m just thinking about how easily you just did something I would never have in a million years had the conviction to do.”

“Well, like you said,” Stiles says, “magic isn’t really an integral part of my life. I can live without it. But, you know . . . it’s because of you that I did it. Because I really admire you, having . . . been able to give it all up the way you did. The self-control not to use it. Now that I’ve really felt what it’s like . . . I know I’m not that strong.”

“Maybe you’re just strong in different ways,” Deaton replies.

“Maybe so,” Stiles says. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Miles to go before I sleep and all that jazz.”

Deaton smiles. “Then I’ll see you later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Harris still isn’t in school on the following Monday, Stiles decides to go see how he’s doing. He’s not sure what exactly leads to this impulse. It’s a combination of curiosity, concern, and possibly a desire to gloat. He also has to admit to a certain lurking feeling that if Harris is in a vulnerable state, he can be talked into dropping the lawsuit.

Derek has gone to his studio, since there’s no point in accompanying Stiles to lacrosse practice, and Stiles texts him to let him know he’s going to run a couple errands before heading over. Derek is still quite clingy, but when he’s content at his studio, Stiles can slip away without it bothering him too much. He doesn’t really think Derek’s presence will help the situation.

He gets Harris’ address from his father and tells Isaac and Scott that he’ll see them later. They head back to Scott’s house without questioning. The pack had stayed at Derek’s over the weekend, so they’re back to needing a break from each other. Stiles rings the bell, knocks, and when he still doesn’t get an answer, he tries the knob. It’s locked. Peeking in through the garage door windows, it looks like Harris’ car is there, so he should be at home. Stiles checks underneath a couple flower pots and ceramic figurines and finds a spare key tucked away in a false compartment in the bottom of one shaped like a frog, partially hidden behind a bush. Then he lets himself in.

The house is dim and musty and honestly a little bit rank. “Mr. Harris?” he calls out, cautiously heading inside. “It’s Stiles. Are you home?”

There’s no reply. Stiles can see a kitchen up ahead, which smells, and off to one side is a living room. It’s been completely wrecked. Most of the furniture has been knocked over and shoved into a pile. There are some blankets and sheets hanging up over it. It takes Stiles a minute to realize that he’s looking at a barricade, and where Harris must be. He lets out a breath. “Mr. Harris, I’m going to come towards you now, okay? So . . . don’t freak out.”

He carefully edges around the room to glance over the piles of furniture. Harris is crouched in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. He’s holding a pistol in his hand, resting on one knee, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white. There’s a thin, gaunt look to his face; he looks like he’s lost a lot of weight very quickly. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is limp and lank. Sweat has beaded on his forehead. “D-Don’t,” he says, gesturing with the pistol. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, lifting his hands to show that he’s unarmed. “I’m gonna stay right here, okay? You should probably put the gun down, though. Just sayin’.”

Harris’ voice trembles as he stares at Stiles. “W-What are you doing here?”

“I came to see if you’re okay,” Stiles says, “which you obviously aren’t, so I guess it’s a good thing I did.” He points to a spot just inside the barricade and says, “I’m gonna sit down here, okay?”

Harris swallows visibly, the Adam’s apple in his throat moving up and down. “Do it slowly,” he says.

Stiles nods, keeps his hands where Harris can see them, and lowers himself to the floor. “What’s with the gun, Mr. Harris?”

“He – he might – come back,” Harris says, his voice a little jerky. “Deaton said he, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, but – but what if he does?”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “That seems pretty sensible to me.”

Harris gives him a suspicious look. “You aren’t going to try to take it away?”

“Uh, no, dude,” Stiles says. “You’ve got a gun; I don’t. How would I take it away from you, anyway?” This is true. Their school has a very strict no-weapons policy, and he’s never wanted to carry his gun badly enough to risk expulsion over it. He _does_ carry a Leatherman, which is pretty close to a weapon but not quite close enough to get him expelled (just suspended) if anyone ever caught him with it.

This seems to make Harris relax a little. He lets out a shuddering breath and tilts his head back, resting it against the wall.

“You don’t look so good,” Stiles finally says, and resists the urge to add ‘you don’t smell so good either’ a la Fezzik. When Harris doesn’t say anything in reply, he says, “Let me guess . . . trouble sleeping? Kinda jumpy? Anxious all the time? Yeah, it sucks, doesn’t it.”

“Did you come here to gloat?” Harris snaps.

“No, man,” Stiles says. “I just . . . thought you should know you’re not the only one who’s ever gone through this.” He gives that a minute to sink in. Harris won’t even look at him now. His entire body is shaking, fine little tremors. “And I know what the worst part is, too. The part where you can’t tell anybody. Can’t talk to anybody. Because they wouldn’t understand. Hell, it’s even worse for you because you don’t even know anybody who knows about the supernatural stuff, really, so what are you going to say?” He gives it another minute. “But if you want to talk about it . . . I’ll listen.”

Harris stares at him for a minute. Then his lip twists in that perpetual sneer he wears. “If I wanted to talk to somebody, it wouldn’t be to _you_.”

The old, familiar rage rises up in Stiles, because Harris is always _such_ a dick, and he almost can’t hold it back. But he takes a deep breath before he rises to his feet. “Okay. Just figured I would offer. Because you can’t hide in here forever.”

He’s almost to the door when he hears Harris say, “I know that.” He stops, with his hand on the knob, and looks over his shoulder. In a voice that’s almost a whisper, only audible because of his enhanced senses, Harris says, “That’s why I bought the gun.”

Stiles lets go of the knob. He walks back over and sits down again, then holds out his hand. “Give it to me,” he says, the voice of authority he uses to give orders with the pack. Harris obeys without hesitation. Stiles unloads the gun, tucks the bullets away in his pocket, and then sets it down behind him, out of sight. “Now tell me what happened.”

As it turns out, Harris’ memories are somewhat fuzzy, which isn’t at all surprising given that magic was involved. He says he had gone to Home Depot, picking up some supplies for a chemistry experiment he was doing with the sophomores. Given that it was a Saturday afternoon, he had wound up in a somewhat lengthy line waiting to check out. The man in front of him had taken a look at what was in his cart, smiled, and said, “Chemistry with the kids, hm?” and then correctly identified what experiment Harris was actually planning. They chatted about it while standing in line, and the man offered to help him carry everything out to his car, which Harris had accepted. That’s the last thing he remembers for a little while. Stiles can’t help but think that, if nothing else, at least Harris is consistent. His love of chemistry will continuously be his downfall, it seems. There are worse things to be passionate about, but Harris has singularly bad luck. Stiles thinks about suggesting he get a new hobby.

After that, he has patchy memories of pain and fear, being tied down by thread that seems to be alive, that burrows into his skin, that feels like it’s _eating_ him, and Stone, always with that malicious smile, telling him exactly what the spell is going to do to him. It certainly sounds like nightmare fodder to Stiles, and he doesn’t blame Harris at all for the meltdown he’s had.

By the time he’s choked all this out, though, his shaking has eased somewhat. Harris leans against the wall, limp and exhausted.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “you need three things at this point: a meal, a shower, and a good night’s sleep. First things first. Go clean yourself up.” He sees Harris open his mouth as if to protest and says, “While you do that, I will sit right in front of your bathroom door with your shiny new gun and make sure nobody comes anywhere near you. Okay?”

After a moment, Harris nods. Stiles stands and extends a hand to him. He grimaces, but takes it, letting Stiles pull him upright. A few minutes later, Stiles has dragged a chair over to sit in front of the bathroom door, and he can hear the water running inside. He can also hear Harris sobbing, but that’s okay, that’s good, that’s stress release. There are a few things he could be doing, but he’s promised to stay where he is, so he does.

Harris comes out of the bathroom about twenty minutes later, dressed in a T-shirt and loose flannel pants that Stiles found in his drawers. Stiles puts him in the kitchen and digs a couple cans of soup of the pantry. He makes one for Harris and one for himself, since he’s hungry, and it’ll give him something to do besides sit there and watch Harris eat. Harris looks a little green around the gills, but chicken soup is comfort food even for asshole chemistry teachers, it seems, and he eats the entire bowl. Stiles scarfs his down and then cleans up a little in the kitchen, which is threatening to form its own civilization. “That’s biology, not chemistry,” Stiles says, and Harris glowers at him. He seems to be loosening up, though. He’s not quite as twitchy.

Even so, he protests as Stiles shepherds him into the bedroom. “I’m not going to sleep.”

“Yes, you are,” Stiles says, pulling a pill bottle from his backpack. He’s too lazy to keep more than one bottle, and he always keeps his Adderall with him, so he’s got the sleeping pills, too. “Any medication allergies?” he asks.

“What? No,” Harris says.

“Good, good. Ambien or Lunesta? Any preference? I’ve got some of each.”

Harris gives him a narrow-eyed look, but apparently decides against commentary. “I don’t really . . .”

“Ambien it is, then,” Stiles says. “I’ll keep the good stuff for myself.” He gets Harris a glass of water and makes him take the pill. “You want me to stay here until you’re asleep?” he asks.

Harris scowls at him. “Why would you do that?”

“That’s not ‘no’,” Stiles points out. Harris says nothing, so Stiles takes it as a yes, and starts straightening up in the bedroom, which is really a Godawful hole, even when compared to the rest of the house.

After a long minute, Harris says, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“A couple reasons,” Stiles says, because he’s pretty sure that saying something cheesy won’t help the situation. “I guess part of it’s an apology, because you shouldn’t have been involved in this, and I probably did give you one hell of a scare by nearly shooting you in the head. Part of it’s to ease my own conscience for nearly shooting you, because fuck, I came close, and I didn’t stop because I cared about you. I stopped because I was worried about _myself_ , about what it would mean for the state of my own soul if I killed a helpless, unarmed man, because I didn’t know how much of that would have been to save other people and how much of it was because I don’t like you. Yeah, part of it’s because I’m hoping that if I’m nice and help you through this, you’ll drop your stupid, unwinnable lawsuit and stop being a dick to me during school and stop trying to make my dad lose his job. And part of it is because I really have been there and I really do know how awful it is to go through this, and nobody deserves that.”

Harris takes all this in, blinking at him slowly, somewhat dazedly. Finally, his voice somewhat slurred, he says, “It really is a stupid lawsuit.”

“Yeah. You’re probably wasting half of a fortune on lawyers.”

The teacher makes a little disgruntled noise. “It’s my money.”

“Never said it wasn’t, dude, but seriously, donate to a homeless shelter or something. Earn some karma points.” He finishes folding the stack of laundry at the foot of the bed. “And you want some advice about the PTSD? Get a service dog. They really work wonders.”

“Very funny,” Harris mutters.

“Not joking,” Stiles says, but Harris is already asleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The drive from Beacon Hills to Fresno takes a little longer on this particular day, because it’s raining and visibility is poor. Stiles emails Gwen before he leaves to let her know that he’s fine with having the session inside, given the givens. It’s probably better anyway; claustrophobia aside, he doesn’t need to worry about people overhearing all the things he needs to tell her.

He stops at the nice Starbucks on the way and gets a mochaccino for himself and a caramel macchiato for Derek, and then, on impulse, asks the cashier if she knows Gwen. He has a suspicion that she goes there fairly often, given how quick she was to recommend it. The cashier does indeed recognize the picture of Gwen that Stiles pulls up on the practice’s website, and says she usually gets a soy latte, so Stiles orders one for her. He drops a couple dollars in the tip bucket and takes his drinks back to the car. The rain has let up some, but it’s still chilly as he jogs into the building and takes the stairs up to the third floor. He suspects years of therapy will be needed before he’ll ever voluntarily set foot in an elevator again.

A few minutes later, he’s in Gwen’s office, and offers her the latte as he walks in. “Today is a good day for coffee,” he remarks cheerfully, flopping onto the sofa. Derek settles on the floor today, mindful of his dirty paws, and waits for Stiles to set his coffee down.

“It is.” Gwen takes it with a genuine smile and then surreptitiously checks the boxes on the side of the cup where they label the drink to make sure it’s something she can drink, and that she won’t have to find some polite way to not drink it. Her smile grows. “How did you sort out what my order was?” she asks, taking a careful sip to test the temperature.

“Oh, I just asked the girl there, she knew what you usually get.” Stiles takes the lid off Derek’s drink and sets in the floor next to him. “You must go there a lot.”

Gwen nods, biting back a smile as Derek settles his paws to either side of his mug and uses them to carefully brace it while he laps some of it up. “It’s nice to get coffee on some days. And Starbucks is the only place nearby where I can reliably get it. Most places don’t do soy, and I’m allergic to dairy.” She takes another sip, clearly enjoying it. “Thank you. This was very thoughtful of you.”

Stiles beams, and then says, almost shyly, “I . . . like to do stuff like that. To take care of people. Derek says that’s part of what makes me a good alpha.”

“He’s right,” Gwen says, nodding. “Being the alpha of a werewolf pack is much like being the head of a family, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. So it’s much more than being the most dominant person. What good is being in charge of a family if you can’t take care of them?” She has more things she could say on this topic, but she keeps them to herself for now, curious to see where Stiles will take the conversation.

“I love it,” Stiles says. “Isn’t that silly? I love baking for everyone and pestering Erica to do her homework and reminding Scott that he promised his mother he would rake the front yard and making lunches for Isaac to bring to school since he doesn’t have parents, really. I love _all_ that dumb shit. It’s my favorite part of having a pack.”

“I think that’s actually pretty healthy,” Gwen says. “That’s sustainable. Day to day life that makes you content. If your favorite part was, say, the adrenaline rush that came from the danger and disaster, then you’d start to seek those things out. Or if it was being in charge and giving orders, you’d try to do that all the time and eventually the others would start to resist and resent you and your pack would fall apart. But your favorite things are the things that will last. The things that are just day to day life.”

Stiles nods and laughs a little. “I just think it’s funny. I’ve got this reputation as some kind of mystical badass. And I guess maybe I can be? And I don’t even think that’s a bad thing! When people mess with me and my pack, I will smack them down _so_ hard and be happy to do it. I just . . . think a lot of people have gotten the wrong idea about me.”

“Is it the wrong idea or just not the whole picture?” Gwen asks. “I’ll confess to knowing that you have something of a reputation. But as soon as someone becomes my client, I stop listening. I don’t want a gossip train coloring my opinions of someone.”

“It’s like . . . it’s very circular,” Stiles says, gesticulating wildly. “Like, yeah, I have a reputation as a badass, but only because people mess with me. So then I get the reputation, which makes _more_ people mess with me, which only makes my reputation greater, wherein if people had just left me alone to _begin_ with, the only reputation I would have would be for the meanest gingersnap in the west.”

“You don’t look for challenges. You just meet them when it’s necessary.” Gwen’s voice is a little tentative. Like she isn’t quite sure she has it right yet.

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t fucking back down. And I do what I have to do, especially when it’s my pack on the line. I just . . . I guess maybe I wonder how things could be different? But then again, if Peter and Gerard hadn’t fucked with me, I wouldn’t be an alpha at all. So maybe I’m just overthinking it.” He rubs his hands vigorously over his hair. “I do that sometimes. A lot.”

“Is it just idle speculation or does it ever spiral out of control to an upsetting degree?” Gwen asks, trying to decide if this is a case of ADD and too much brainpower or depression and too much brainpower.

“Nah, I don’t get upset by it,” Stiles says. “I just sometimes feel like a hamster on a wheel.”

“Is it better if you talk about it out loud? Does that cut it off faster?”

“Hah, no, then I just go off on tangents. I can talk for hours.” Stiles rubs his hand over the back of his head and says, somewhat ruefully, “Maybe I _do_ need my Adderall dose adjusted. Sorry I, uh, bit your head off over that when we met.”

“Forgiven,” Gwen says, waving her hand. “You were obviously stressed, and with your sleeping problems, having me poke at your Adderall usage most likely felt very close to me taking away one of your coping mechanisms.” With most patients, she would have left off after ‘apology accepted’, but she’s fairly sure that Stiles likes to know about the inner workings of his own mind, so she likes to present things to him when she thinks she has something worked out. Most of the time, anyway; there’s a degree of bluntness that she knows she needs to avoid. “You self-medicate and I nearly called you on it, and that likely scared the shit out of you.”

“Yeah . . . hey, speaking of scaring the shit out of people, I was doing some research on how this whole confidentiality thing works. Don’t worry, this isn’t about my dad, I’m over that now. So if you think that I’m going to commit a crime, you have to report me to the police, right?”

“Interesting segue.” Gwen toasts him with her coffee before taking a swallow. “That is the law, yes.”

“Hey, like I said, tangents,” Stiles says. “But you don’t have to report me to the police if I admit to having committed a crime in the past. Like, I mean, you know I killed Peter and you didn’t go calling the cops on me.”

“By law, I do have more leeway. Because of the sort of clients I see, I operate in a much more grey area than most therapists. The supernatural world is peppered with things, often violent things, that would seem very disturbing to someone in the mundane world, yet are basically necessary to survival. Such as what happened to Peter.”

Stiles nods a little. After a moment, he sets his coffee down carefully on the little end table. “I killed Stone.” He looks up, looks her in the eye when he says it. “I took one of his spells and slapped it back in his face. It’s . . . kind of a long story, but that’s the basics. And I don’t feel bad. But then I worry that not feeling bad is bad.” He shrugs. “It’s all kind of confusing.”

Gwen is quiet for a moment. She can’t say she’s surprised. People that come gunning for a werewolf pack are either sent running or, far more often, have their throats torn out. Either metaphorically or literally. “Do you feel good about it?” she asks, careful to keep her tone even.

“No,” Stiles says. “I mean, I feel good about my pack being safe. I feel good about not having to look over my shoulder all the time. But I don’t feel good about _doing_ it. I just don’t feel bad about it either. I wish there had been another way, but there wasn’t, so, you know. What’s done is done.”

“Do you think you should feel bad?” Gwen waves a hand a little. “Discounting the basic common laws of society for a moment, because we’ve already established that they can only accommodate the world you live in so much.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, fidgeting a little. “I guess I don’t feel like I should, just that a normal person _would_. But it’s not like he didn’t get what was coming to him. I mean, if a guy tried to mug me and threatened me with a gun, and we got in a fight and I shot him with that gun, I don’t think I would feel bad about that. And it’s not like I would get arrested for it, either.”

“I don’t think anyone would expect you to feel bad or guilty for it either,” Gwen says. She considers what he said, and the actual words that he used. “Are you worried that you aren’t behaving like a normal person anymore?”

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. “Dude, I _know_ I’m not behaving like a normal person anymore. If I ever did.”

“But does that bother you?”

There’s a long moment while Stiles considers. Then he shrugs and says, “Not really.”

“Okay.” Gwen nods in satisfaction. She clearly thinks that this is a good answer, a well-adjusted answer, and she’s not bothering to hide her opinion. “Then my advice is not to worry about whether or not a normal person would feel bad or not. Because that isn’t you. Nor is it, as far as I know and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, any of the people in your life that you really care about. So you don’t need to play normal on that level.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Stiles says, somewhat pensively. “Actually, if I acted anything like ‘normal’, it would worry the shit out of everyone I know. He shrugs a little and says, “But hey, I’m still coming here, so clearly I know what’s good for me.”

Gwen makes an amused noise, but then sobers. “So, what are you worried about?” she asks.

“Oh, well, the point I was going to make is that I don’t have to worry about the lawsuit anymore,” Stiles says. “Harris dropped it. Because I saved his stupid life. Or maybe because he’s decided he’s going to become a hermit. Uh, the jury’s still out on that one, really.”

“Can I ask what happened?” Gwen asks.

Stiles takes a big swallow of his coffee. “Uh, that would take most of the session, if we’re going to be honest, but to give you the bullet points, Stone abducted Harris and had him at the center of some weird spell that fucked up everyone in Beacon Hills – well, you watch the news, you probably heard about the ‘mysterious virus’ that hit over the weekend. Anyway, the spell was draining his life force and going to kill him, plus it looked like the only way to get it _off_ him was to kill him, and it was this whole thing about how far I was willing to go to protect my pack, whatever, Stone is a douche – _was_ a douche – and was probably also trying to frame me for murder. Well. Not frame me, I guess, because in theory I would have actually committed the murder. Anyway, I managed to get the spell to attach to _me_ instead of Harris, thus saving his miserable ass, and then once I was inside it, I managed to direct it back at Stone because I am, when I need to be, a complete badass.”

“Somehow, that does not surprise me,” Gwen says, somewhat amused. “I didn’t know you knew that much about magic.”

“Hey, imagination is more powerful than knowledge,” Stiles says. “Magic is more about belief, about _will_ , than anything else. I can’t do shit when it’s not all on the line.”

“So what you’re saying is that you do magic by the seat of your pants,” Gwen says.

Derek, meanwhile, is trying not to have a panic attack at the mere memory of Stiles saying goodbye. He seems physically torn between pressing to the floor, and trying to crawl into Stiles’ lap, and instead makes an involuntary, distressed noise. It’s unusual for him, because he does try to stay quiet during Stiles’ appointments. Stiles just takes this in stride, sliding off the sofa and onto the floor so Derek can lay across his lap, both his hands twining in Derek’s fur. “Basically. Actually, now I can’t do shit at all. I had Deaton strip my magic. It was just . . . it fucking scared the shit out of me, how good it felt. I didn’t want to go down the same road as Jackson, thinking magic could solve all my problems and I could have anything I wanted.” He clears his throat and adds, “As you can see, certain people did not appreciate the fact that I almost killed myself doing this.” Derek curls up around Stiles, pressing in as close as he can. Every now and then he shifts a little, only to jam his face back into Stiles’ side.

Gwen watches this blatant display of canine separation anxiety, and makes a mental note to email Stiles and ask if Derek has ever had any sort of therapy for the many traumas in his life. Obviously, the threat of losing an alpha and mate is upsetting, but she’s surprised it’s causing this sort of panic over a week later, especially one that’s so devoid of human behavior. But she’ll let Stiles handle his lupa. It’s her job to help Stiles. “Clearly. Did you have a plan at all? Or were you trading your life for Harris’?” She certainly hopes not. She met the man at the hearing. It was only briefly, but she’s sure that Stiles is worth ten of him.

“It wasn’t really like that,” Stiles says. “I didn’t have a plan, but . . . it wasn’t about my life for his. It was . . . it was about me killing him versus not killing him. I mean, he’s a dick, but lots of people are dicks, that doesn’t mean they deserve to die.” He gives a little shrug and says, “It was my life or my soul, I guess. Can I get away with being that melodramatic?”

“I’ll let it slide as long as you don’t start writing bad poetry,” Gwen says. “But I understand what you’re saying. Once you decided you couldn’t kill him, then you had to deal with the consequences of that. Which was ending the spell somehow.”

Stiles nods. “And we weren’t really long on options, or time. And . . . my dad was affected by it, he was hurting, so . . .”

“So you were against a clock,” Gwen says, nodding in understanding.

“Yeah. And maybe not thinking super clearly. I mean, shit, I hadn’t really slept in – oh hey, so, anyway, as I was saying, Harris dropped the lawsuit, so you don’t need to worry about proving I need a service dog.”

“Noted,” Gwen says, thinking that it seems like the ‘service dog’ now needs Stiles. “How is your sleeping now?”

“Well, it’s definitely been a lot better now that Stone is out of the picture,” Stiles says. “I mean, still not _great_ , but back to the status quo, so I’m still usually having one or two nightmares, but I only sometimes have to get up and start baking afterwards. And I mostly go to bed somewhere around a reasonable hour.”

“I suppose it’s all about perspectives. Has the new medication helped? Or is this enough sleep for you to feel okay without?” She keeps her voice carefully even, not showing an opinion either way.

“I thought it was enough, but Dad and Derek thought I should at least _try_ the new meds, so I did, over the weekend.” Stiles makes kind of a face. “I didn’t feel _as_ groggy the next morning as I did with the Ambien, but I wasn’t exactly up and at ‘em, either.”

“Did you feel more rested once you woke up properly?”

“Well, sure, the next day, after I’d gotten non-drugged sleep.”

“Do you want to try a different kind?”

“Not really,” Stiles admits. “Not now that there’s no bullshit crisis going on. I’ll stick with melatonin and naps during Spanish class.”

“I’m sure your Spanish teacher is happy to be part of your sleep schedule,” Gwen says, with a snort of laughter.

“I make sure to snore en la Español,” Stiles says, with a completely straight face. “Seriously, though, I guess it’s too bad marijuana only makes me vaguely cuddly and compliant, rather than sleepy, or maybe it’s a _good_ thing because I don’t want to be a stoner and oh Christ you haven’t heard _that_ story yet, what’s wrong with me?” Stiles’ face is bright and animated now, his hands waving in the air as he talks, hauling himself back up so he’s sitting on the sofa again. “I mean, it’s not like I was smoking it for shits and giggles. Danny was having trouble shifting, so we got him stoned. I mean, a bunch of us did. Fuck, you’re not required to tell someone about drug use, are you?”

Gwen arches an eyebrow at him but then says, “No, I’m not.”

“Okay. Cool. I mean, it’s legal in two states, how bad can it be? And my dad knew about it, he said okay since it was to help Danny with the transition, but if he caught us doing it all the time he’d kick my ass, and that’s fair. Anyway, my version of being stoned was just to lie around and eat lots of Dorito’s and let Derek draw on me with markers. It was kinda like a party. But we did it together because, I don’t know, I didn’t want Danny to feel like I was saying ‘you suck at being a werewolf and require drugs to pull it off’, it was more like ‘hey, let’s do this fun thing together and see if it helps’. Which it did, by the way. Kinda funny. He was like ‘I don’t feel any different’ and we were like ‘we know, that’s what we were trying to tell you’. I guess it’s hard to shake out of that idea that you’re going to become some ravenous beast and lose yourself altogether.”

Gwen listens to all this, takes a sip of her latte, and then says, “It was a good idea, and I’m glad it helped. It sounds liked you did a really good job and handled that really well.”

As she expects, Stiles flushes bright pink, and that’s how she knows that _he_ knows that she means it. “Well, it wasn’t my idea, anyway. I mean, I had to ask Justin, he’s from the alpha pack, we kinda text sometimes, how to handle it.”

“Yes, but you took the time to get advice from a reliable source instead of just pushing at him,” Gwen says. “And not only that, but you figured out how to do it without making Danny uncomfortable.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Stiles rubs his hands over the back of his hair and says, “Anyway, the person we really have to worry about getting addicted to marijuana is Derek. Check this out.” He pulls out his phone and starts thumbing through the pictures, holding it out so Gwen can see. What she sees is a group of teenagers in a variety of states of undress, with pictures drawn on their skin. Some of the pictures were taken while Derek was working, leaning over Lydia’s back or Stiles’ shoulder with a mellow, content expression on his face.

“These are amazing,” Gwen says, leafing through the gallery, taking notice of the bright colors. Derek takes this opportunity to try to wedge himself behind the sofa.

Stiles laughs at him. “Oh, come on, fuzz-butt. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Derek lowers his head and gives a chuff.

“What, no,” Stiles says. “I think it makes perfect sense. I mean, wolves, tactile creatures. You like being close to people. As long as they’re in the pack, anyway.”

The noise Derek makes at this is more of a whine than anything else.

“Shut up, nobody minded,” Stiles tells him. Derek peeks out from behind the sofa, his ears still mostly flat and the tail giving one slow, unsure wag. Gwen watches this in interest, noting the way they can have a complete conversation even though Derek is a wolf right now. Stiles can read him that well. “Yeah, yeah, get up here. At least you didn’t start making out with anybody.”

Gwen’s eyebrows go up again as Derek clambers up onto the sofa and flops down with his head and a paw in Stiles’ lap. Stiles is grinning, and she can see the smile lines around his eyes now, the ones that had undoubtedly been there long before Peter Hale came into his life. “Was making out with someone a danger?”

“Uh, well, more of a reality.” Stiles starts scrolling through pictures on his phone again. “See, I’m kinda . . . straight? Or at least mostly straight.” His fingers comb absently through Derek’s fur as he talks about this. “But Derek’s my lupa. And that’s, like, a _thing_. Which I’m sure you know. But, uh, I’m also seventeen. And this is Erica.” He holds up his phone again, displaying Erica leaning against a desk, wearing a short skirt and a wickedly sassy grin. “And she has offered to be my fuckbuddy. You know. So my needs are met. Without having to go outside the pack and explain the situation to some random girl who probably wouldn’t want to sleep with me anyway. Et cetera.”

“I see,” Gwen says. She considers all of this, and not just the words, but how quick Stiles was willing to show it off, the way his other hand curls in Derek’s fur, the way Derek has stayed, for the most part, relaxed as he dwarfs the sofa and takes up Stiles’ lap. His ears are moving, tracking the conversation, so there’s clearly interest and even some concern, but no fear. “You sound like you wouldn’t mind this at all.”

“Oh my God no, she’s like, hotter than the sun,” Stiles says, and tucks the phone away. “We were working through possibly jealousy and awkwardness issues. The weed actually helped a lot,” he adds brightly, “because Mr. Stoic over here managed to use his words for a while.”

Derek’s lip curls up, showing one fang, and he makes a noise that’s not quite a growl. Gwen bites her lip to avoid laughing.

“Anyway, so, we all had this talk and we all felt pretty good about it and I felt _great_ about it, because I actually got to touch a girl for the first time like, ever, and second base is God damned amazing, but right about then Scott and Allison – who weren’t stoned because Scott has asthma and didn’t want to push his luck and Allison, my _God_ can you imagine what Chris Argent would do to me if he caught me giving his precious baby princess drugs, seriously, he’d react better to me straight up murdering a guy and I know that because he’s seen me do it – decided that hey, maybe now wasn’t the best time to be making major life decisions, so they put us in separate rooms. Erica’s been sulking ever since.”

Gwen has an almost overwhelming urge to laugh. It’s nice to see Stiles bright and lively and full of energy. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to agree with Scott and Allison on this one.” She holds up a hand to stay whatever protests might fall out of Stiles’ mouth. “I’m not saying that you and Erica shouldn’t have a relationship. I’m just saying that the three of you shouldn’t be making important choices like that while intoxicated. If you’re all on the same page while sober, and agree to what the relationship would and would not include, then,” she makes a shooing motion with her hands, “go forth.”

“God, you’re awesome,” Stiles says. “Do you know how many therapists would probably freak out at the concept of an open relationship? Anyway, yeah, we sort of agreed that . . . uh, further shenanigans will be suspended until such time when, you know, we wouldn’t be doing it right in front of Derek, because, I dunno, that just seems rude.”

“Well, you’re in a unique and unusual position,” Gwen says. “This isn’t the common romantic lupa pairing. It takes a bit of creative thinking and open-mindedness. My only concern is that three of you have talked about it and are in agreement. If that’s the case, go be seventeen, be safe, and don’t give me any details.”

“Noted,” Stiles says, and then he’s grinning again. “For real, though, Danny was hilarious. I mean, his honest first reaction to the shift was ‘holy crap, I need to go get these sideburns _waxed_ ’ and we all laughed for about ten minutes . . . maybe it was funnier when I was stoned, but it’s still pretty funny.”

Gwen snorts. “No, that’s pretty funny even now.”

“Yeah, then he taught me the word ‘manscaped’, so hey, we learn something new every day, right?”

“If you guys do this again, you should videotape it,” Gwen says. “I’m thinking you would be a You Tube sensation.”

“Hey, that’s me,” Stiles says. “A comedian in every life. But, it’s just like, I feel like everything’s going to be okay, and that’s just fucking _amazing_. You know? It’s like, something as simple as ‘nobody is currently trying to kill you and your pack’ shouldn’t feel this good. But it totally does.”

“Think about what you just said, Stiles. ‘No one is trying to kill the people I care about’. It should absolutely feel this good, especially when you know what the alternative feels like.”

“Yeah, but, for most people that’s not anything special. That’s just life.”

“You aren’t most  people, and they aren’t living your life.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Stiles gives a somewhat rueful laugh. “I think I said it about eighteen hundred times during this misadventure. ‘No worries, this is just my life now’. And you know what? I think I can live with that.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The next week is Thanksgiving, and Stiles is privately amazed at how much of autumn has flown by while he’s been wrapped up in all this. He remembers, somewhat dimly, the Christmas he spent in his father’s hospital room the year before. Holidays have a tendency to sneak up on him, it seems.

He proposes a pack Thanksgiving, but a lot of the others have family coming into town. Boyd’s grandparents and his cousins are going to be there, and Danny’s uncles are coming, and Erica’s huge extended family on her father’s side is coming up from the Los Angeles area, and Lydia is actually going to be out of town, seeing her father. So he says that’s okay, everyone can do family stuff on Thanksgiving and then they’ll have a pack party on the Saturday following Thanksgiving.

Lydia gets nominated to host, because it’s going to be a huge gathering and her house is the only one with enough space. She clears it with her mother, who’s fine with it, and Stiles invites all the pack’s immediate families, and then breaks down and invites Jackson and his parents as well, because he can’t hate the dude forever. He even invites Dr. Deaton, although he declines, saying he’s going to be out of town.

So Thanksgiving itself is somewhat quiet: just Stiles and his father, Scott and his mother, Derek, and Isaac. Stiles makes a turkey, they feast and watch old black and white movies. Stiles starts cooking Friday morning for the party the next day, and basically doesn’t stop until Saturday afternoon. Everyone’s had turkey on Thursday, so he makes beef bourguignon and brioche, because it’s hard to go wrong with French cooking.

It’s a lively party, because Boyd’s siblings are there as well as Erica’s two younger sisters and Danny’s younger brother, so there are kids running around. Allison somehow convinced her parents to come, and their presence is less stiff and uncomfortable than usual. The parents drink beer and cocktails while the teenagers hang out in the rec room and relax and shoot the breeze. Danny’s parents seem vaguely bewildered by the gathering, but Stiles hears one of them mention to Melissa McCall that it’s nice to see Danny “expanding his circle of friends” which Stiles takes to mean “hanging out with people who aren’t Jackson”. He’s glad that Jackson doesn’t hear that comment. Jackson is being a little sullen and has a perpetual pout on his face, but at least he showed up and is being relatively civil to everyone. Lydia is giving him a fairly wide berth, and he cringes every time he sees her looking at him, but Stiles isn’t going to get involved in that. He’s also pretty sure that Danny’s parents are happy that Danny has made a friend who’s also gay, if the smiles they’re directing at him and Derek are any indication. Stiles is just anticipating the massive confusion that will follow if Mrs. Whittemore mentions Lydia and Stiles’ hypothetical relationship.

Jackson’s parents are also happy to be there, happy to see that Stiles and Jackson are attempting to “mend fences”, as Mrs. Whittemore puts it. It’s awkward, but what the hell, Stiles has dealt with awkwardness before. If the mood seems a little more celebratory than some of the parents would anticipate, they chalk it up to the fact that Harris has officially dropped his lawsuit and there was a big article in the paper about it, including a quote from Harris that says unequivocally that the charges were false and he personally plans on voting for Sheriff Stilinski in the upcoming election.

All told, there are nearly thirty people at the gathering, and they put away an impressive amount of food and liquor. After dinner, Sheriff Stilinski says, “Okay, Stiles, we’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles perks up. “Is it Angelina Jolie?”

His father lets out a snort of laughter. “Come and see,” he says, but insists on Stiles covering his eyes until they’re out in the driveway. When he uncovers them, his Jeep is sitting there, repaired and repainted and one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen.

“My Jeeeeeeep!” he cheers, throwing himself at it. It’s been repainted in green and brown camouflage colors, which he knows might come in quite handy in the future. The door has been replaced; all the damage to the front bumper is fixed. “It’s the best day ever!” he proclaimed, pressing his cheek against the windshield.

“Are you hugging your car?” Danny asks.

“Yes!” Stiles replies.

“Come see the best part,” Scott says, grinning. Stiles goes around to the back of the Jeep to see that someone has gotten him one of those tire covers that reads ‘problem/no problem’ depending on whether the Jeep is right side up or upside down. He lets out a choked burst of laughter.

“You guys are sick!” he says, and then they’re all laughing as well. “No, seriously, I love it.” He gives his father a huge hug. “Thanks.” His father hugs him back, then pulls the keys out of his pocket and holds them up. Stiles grabs them out of his hand. “Okay, guys, let’s go!”

“Where are we going?” Erica asks, rocking back and forth on her heels.

“I have no idea!” Stiles proclaims cheerfully. “The world is big and bright and begging to be explored!” To his father, he says, “See you later!”

“You guys have fun,” Sheriff Stilinski says, and yes, Stiles thinks, that’s a good word, a good wish. It’s time to have fun.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to those who have asked, yes, there will probably be more of this universe, although it may be a little while because I need to finished Tangled Webs (and One Door Closes, my God, that story is a hot mess) and then I actually have vacation (two weeks of traveling and visiting and limited internet, what shall I do? =O) . . . but I really want to write a story about the hunter community that basically consists of Stiles and Chris snarking at each other a lot, because I seriously love putting the two of them in a room together. Honestly, I kind of hedged on it, but you guys are the best fans, for real, I love each and every one of you and I have treasured every comment and am so glad that you’re still reading and not sick of me yet. ^_^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Boy in Red (Painting)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320622) by [charlaine2124](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlaine2124/pseuds/charlaine2124)
  * [The Boy In Red (Cover Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546900) by [justaddgigi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaddgigi/pseuds/justaddgigi)
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